


Easy as 1, 2, 3

by herringbone



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Christmas, Dancing, F/M, Headaches & Migraines, Homophobia, I'll note the instances of these tags being relevant as necessary, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Blood, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Multi, Sexual descrimination, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Tequila Thursdays, Texting, also I am not American so I'm making up college life please forgive me, also other things like, but it's not a tragedy and nobody dies, like rEALLY STUPID NICKNAMES, most of them only apply here and there, so this summary looks hell depressing oops, stupid nicknames, the slowest of slow burns, there's also lot's of normal stuff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-05-02 13:23:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 62,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5249711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herringbone/pseuds/herringbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A/N: last chapter finally uploaded!</p><p><i>But not so much of a no-brainer, if Pen Asshole is anything to go by</i>, Grantaire thinks, still scrolling. Passing the roll around at 3.05pm today, he had thought the guy’s name started with an E. <i>Enjolras</i>. Right. What an asshole.</p><p>  <i>“But the separation of church and state is – ”</i></p><p>  <i>“Since when is such an abomination part of a – ”</i></p><p>  <i>“What about a present-day application – ”</i></p><p>“Hey, how about you shut up, Apollo?”</p><p>(Or, the Les Mis college AU where Grantaire gets drunk, Enjolras gets migraines, and the ABC all get more than they bargain for.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief warning for sexual descrimination, anxiety, and questionable drinking habits. Also please note that R’s self-deprecation extends to include harsh narration of his own experiences, and that in particular his attitude towards his problems is unhealthy and inaccurate – this will extend throughout the fic.

When he gets back from half-credit class with the pen that doesn’t belong to him still clutched between his fingers, Grantaire can only snicker, turning the door handle with his left hand. Staggering inside, he lets his backpack sag from his shoulders, kicks off his boots without sending them skidding across to the kitchenette – finally – and spills his armful of college detritus onto the bench. He hadn’t expected AT: Historical Representation of Politics in Art (3 credit points) to be interesting.

“’M home,” he calls out, belatedly, still examining the pen.

“Hey, R.”

“New pen for you,” Grantaire says. “Think quick.”  
  
Jehan, peeking around from the alcove in the far corner, blinks as the pen shoots through the air and _thwacks_ into the wall beside his head.

“I said, think quick,” he says, grinning, but Jehan just rolls his eyes.

“I made taco filling if you want early dinner. Feuilly’s still at work. What’s with the pen?”

Grantaire shrugs and turns back to the whirlwind of course outlines and notepaper now spread nicely over the kitchen bench like a torn tablecloth. If he didn’t want to mention the asshole whose pen he now had, that was none of Jehan’s business.

“Taco stuff’d be great, thanks,” he says instead, sorting the pages into a pile. “You coming tonight? I assume Feuilly will go straight there.”

Jehan yawns, and, having picked up the pen, jams it behind one ear.

“Hope so, but I’ve gotta finish this summary for tomorrow. We’ll see?”

“Nah, you’d better come. Besides, Courf is finally back from – ”

“Shut up, R,” Jehan says mildly, and turns back to his laptop, disappearing back around the alcove.

Snorting, Grantaire gathers up the rest of his mess as best as he can, and retreats to his room.

It is the second week of his fifth year, and he is yet to miss any classes. This is a minor miracle. He crosses to his bedside table, yanks open the top draw, and withdraws a flask of whiskey. This is less of a miracle, but right now his saving grace. He takes a gulp. Now flopped onto his bed, he scrunches up his face as the mouthful tingles, scratches, burns at his throat. It is the second week of his fifth year at 4.07pm and he has only had two drinks today. A third will be fine. He screws the lid back on the flask, tosses it back into the drawer, and pulls his laptop out from under his pillow. Permanently plugged in to its charger, it has given up its ability to be portable in favor of being Grantaire’s Technological Nightmare Version One. After a worrying groan or two, the computer whirrs into life. He logs into ClassOnline, scrolls to find the Art Politics virtual classroom, and clicks ‘classmates’.

Grantaire hadn’t intended to take a politics subject by any means. When he approached Mabeuf about it being his final year of study, the professor had insisted he take on a half-credit independent project.

“You’re going to hate most of the capstone painting courses. Waste of your time and energy.”

“But if I take an independent course I’ll have to – ”

“Be independent? Yes, Grantaire, and if you want to keep up with your art-making-set-design-theater-school mashup dream, I’d suggest you try something on this scale first.”

Mabeuf’s voice had dropped to a slightly less terrifying roar.

“You can paint, you know, even if not all of the professors agree. Sure, your technique could do with some work, but – ”

“I’ll take the damn project. What do I do for the other half, though?”

Mabeuf had shrugged, and passed him the list of general education Art Faculty courses. Historical Representation had been at the top. It was a no-brainer.

 _But not so much of a no-brainer, if Pen Asshole is anything to go by_ , Grantaire thinks, still scrolling. Passing the roll around at 3.05pm today, he had thought the guy’s name started with an E. _Enjolras_. Right. What an asshole.

_“But the separation of church and state is – ”_

_“Since when is such an abomination part of a – ”_

_“What about a present-day application – ”_

“Hey, how about you shut up, Apollo?” Grantaire had muttered.

He was probably around the same age as him, but Grantaire had suddenly returned to age nine, where anyone with a righteous enough glare was enough to get him to shut up, the age where he still hoped that his fellow classmates wouldn’t give him shit after the teacher yelled about the mural on his school desk.

“Not as if you’re contributing,” Apollo had hissed back.

Past-Grantaire rolls his eyes and looks back down at the class handout, where Professor Lamarque had included Michelangelo’s _David_ , staring forlornly past his shoulder, up at the flickering light on the classroom ceiling. Anything to break eye contact with The Stare. The statue’s marble curls aren’t far off the gospel of the asshole at the opposite desk. He glances back up at him and manages a grin.

“I’m at art major, not a politician, Apollo.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Tense in the shoulders, clearly irritable, Apollo had turned his eyes back to the front of the room. It had been his pen going around with the roll for class, and Grantaire wasn’t going to give it back now if his life depended on it.

De _pen_ ded.

 _Grantaire, you are trash_ , he thinks hazily, before slamming his laptop shut. It’s time for tacos, and then he will remind himself not to start shaking, wake Jehan from his biology-induced stupor, and drag their sorry asses to Musain.

 

<> 

 

The Musain Café & Bar, est. 1986, sticks out like a sore thumb, even though it sits smack dab in the middle of the university quarter. The French windows that give passers-by a view inside are painted in an array of rough colors streaked through with woodwork where it has peeled away, and the place is (nearly) always open. Well. Early until 10pm Sunday to Tuesday, and slightly-less-early til 2am the other days (4am on Saturdays). Nights. Whatever. Grantaire only knows because it’s his place of income when he isn’t there with Jehan and co. Graveyard shifts aren’t his favourite, but they beat withdrawal symptoms by a long way. Tonight is a Thursday, though, and that means cheap Tequila and Trash-Talking night, made better by the fact that being the second week of semester, everyone is bound to be there 

“I still think Tequila night should be Tuesdays. Tuesday Tequila, y’know. Alliteration,” Jehan says, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets and frowning slightly.

Grantaire chuckles.

“Finish your summary?”

At that, Jehan pulls a face.

“Sort of. It’ll do, the professor seems chill enough. Hey, is that Combeferre? Ferre!”

He waves, overenthusiastic, at perhaps the only member of their group of friends that looks truly out of place around campus, given that most of their group dresses either like a thrift shop (e.g. Jehan or Cosette), in a minimum of five colors (Musichetta and, surprisingly, Bahorel), or in the dark (Grantaire and, well, yeah, just Grantaire). Combeferre, in a pale blue button up – striking against his mottled face and hands – and dark chinos, raises a hand in response as they draw level with him, locking his bike to the rack at the last intersection between campus housing and Musain.

“Jehan, R, nice to see you,” he says, gripping each of their hands briefly. 

He retrieves his messenger bag from the handlebars, and the three of them pass the last few shop fronts; Jehan interrogates Combeferre about ribose-phosphate backbones and Grantaire pretends to understand. When they arrive, he pushes open the door and lets the others in first, inhaling the caffeine-alcohol fusion he loves and thinking about downing tequila by the gallon and sleeping til noon.

 _Fuck_.

When he had fought his way around enrolments for this semester he had known he needed to coordinate making himself leave the flat at least once every day during the week. Sure, the college counsellor was a weird guy, but Myriel had had a few things to say about at least _appearing_ to be a functioning adult, and Grantaire takes them to heart like his life depends on it. (It kind of does.) So Wednesday is meant to be his studio day, as much as he’s able, and therefore Tuesdays are meant to be drink-free. This week it definitely wasn’t.

 _Second week, Grantaire, get it together._ He argues briefly with himself about whether or not he should make tomorrow dry in lieu. Would it count as drinking on a Friday if he was a. still drunk by morning, and/or b. if he drank after midnight? Deciding that _before you sleep it’s still the previous day_ is both a lame-ass excuse and the best one he has, Grantaire lets the door swing shut behind him.

“R!”

Marius pulls him out of his stupor and into a one-armed hug, his other hand linked with Cosette’s.

“That’s me,” Grantaire says, briefly squeezing back before disentangling himself from the couple.

He wonders how much he will be required to talk tonight.

“R, excellent!”

Bossuet hoists himself from a low couch to high-five him, earning a bruise to the knee as he collides with a badly-placed barstool.

“Always – and Musichetta, Jollly, nice to see you,” Grantaire manages, grinning and shaking hands all around. “Tequila, everyone?”

He avoids Jehan’s possibly-concerned gaze, counted the raised hands around their usual table in the back corner, and heads to the bar and Eponine.

“Remind me, when do you finish?”

“Seven,” she grumbles, setting down a bottle of José Cuervo and handing him a stack of glasses. “Self-serve, can you? Back room is a mess and I don’t want to leave it that way for Valjean. He already wants an excuse to yell at me for serving everyone without checking ID.”

“Sure. Also hi. What’s up?”

He and Eponine have been friends long enough to skip the pleasantries, but sometimes it’s nice to ask anyway.

“Gavroche got that apprenticeship,” she says, wiping over a particularly grimy portion of the grate below the beer taps. “Aside from that, nothing new. You?”

In the time it has taken her to pull out the rag from her back pocket, he has downed liberal splash of liquor, winced, and nearly cracked his glass against the bar top.

“That good, hey,” she says, looking at him properly.

“Electrician, yeah?” She nods, but he doesn’t look at her. “Uh, I met an asshole in my art history elective?” he offers, frowning at the glass in his hand.

“Go on, take that back to the table,” says Eponine, clapping him lightly on the shoulder with her free hand. “I’ll be out in less than an hour, and I’ll bring snacks. Save some for me!”

He nods, stacks the glasses securely into one hand against his chest, and carries them back to the milling group along with the bottle.

“Help yourselves,” he announces, not before doing the same for his own glass.

“You eat dinner in the end, R?” Jehan asks quietly, in his ear.

“ _Shit!_ – don’t sneak up on a man like that. Yeah?”

Jehan reaches across Grantaire’s lap for the bottle as if he had said nothing. Across the table, Musichetta kisses Feuilly, recently arrived, on the cheek. Grantaire blows them both a kiss and settles back into the couch with his glass, between Joly and Jehan, until his pocket buzzes. He pulls out his phone at the same time as Jehan does the same, realises it isn’t his phone, and grins over his shoulder as he sees the message on Jehan’s phone screen

**Courfeyrac / 6.14pm**

_hey, on my way, held up @ seminar fr performance dates – b there by half past. Tell the others? :) I am Ready for TRASHQUILA_

“Only as long as you tell me with the same early two thousands text speak, Jehan,” Grantaire mutters, earning himself a jab in the face from Asshole’s pen, still behind his friend’s ear.

Grinning, Jehan tugs at the pen in question, grabs Grantaire’s tequila-occupied hand – “hey, not fair, I’ll spill it!” – and scrawls _fuk u :)_ between his thumb and forefinger in neat cursive.

“True art. I’ll never live up to your genius,” Grantaire says solemnly, staring down at the handwriting. Then, frowning, “how did you write that neatly on _skin_ with a _ballpoint_ – ”

“ _Na zdrowie_ , ” Bahorel interrupts, bumping his glass against Grantaire’s. “It’s been ages!”

“Is that my mother tongue I hear?” Feuilly asks, and sidles up to them both with his own glass 

“Bottoms up,” Grantaire replies, pretending to meet Bahorel’s smile as he throws back the third glassful.

“Pretzels!”

Eponine sweeps over to their table from the bar, holding a bowl of pretzel bites in each hand, and deposits them on the low table. Greeted by a chorus of _thank you!_ she waves a hand at them,  returning to the bar, not before mock-catching a kiss thrown across the circle to her from Bossuet and pressing it to her cheek. The rest of them have managed to find a couch cushion or barstool by now, and they were only waiting on Courfeyrac. Speaking of which –

“Courf says he’ll be here in another five minutes or so,” Jehan manages to say over the general hubbub. “In the mean time, any major news we need to bring up?”

The discussion dissolves pretty quickly once Marius makes mention of having gotten into Dark Souls II over the summer break. Grantaire is happy to slump back into the couch cushions and say nothing. Cosette and Bossuet argue the finer points of Final Fantasy X cut scenes, Musichetta engages Bahorel in non-gaming conversation – _I will pay you to talk about Literally Anything Else_ – and the whole night is going well, really, until a whole two minutes has passed and the inevitable.

“How about you, R? What’s the plan for this year?”

He takes a deep breath, reminding himself that Cosette is Being Nice.

“Same old, same old,” he says, glancing perhaps slightly wildly around the group and not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Art? Dance? I’ve got at least another year left, nothing on you guys, but, you know.”

“Taking any theory?” Bossuet asks over the rim of his glass.

“Just a half-credit one for art,” he replies, shrugging. “Probably won’t cross over with anyone’s classes here this session.”

He covers the obvious gap in conversation by reaching for the tequila again, because everyone else sitting there knows full well that Grantaire is in his fifth year out of high school and only starting effectively his third year of college. Having shitty relationships with parental figures and developing alcohol dependence does that to people, apparently. But he’s also an idiot, so there’s that.

He offers the bottle to Combeferre, sitting opposite him, whose phone has just started ringing. The med student stands, waving one hand in thanks, and strides a little way away in an attempt to hear whoever is on the other line.

“Bahorel’s our resident genius, though, right, along with Ferre? How’s being equipped to lay down the law?” Grantaire asks, turning back to the group, his voice weaker than he would have liked.

Thankfully, Bahorel takes the bait.

“This freaking office I swear,” Bahorel begins, and Grantaire is treated to several more blissful moments of not requiring conversation interaction.

“Hello, hello, hello?”

True to his usual inability to use his Inside Voice, Courfeyrac practically yells across to the group as he waltzes into Musain. Grantaire nudges Jehan in the ribs, earns a more painful prod back, and turns around to greet the last member of their group.

He is greeted at first by the sight of Courfeyrac skipping across the room. Unsurprising. What makes him take a second look and promptly quaff his most recent tequila acquisition, though, is Combeferre, hanging up his phone and extending a handshake to none other than Pen Asshole, emerging into the warm brightness of Musain from the drab campus walkway outside. Grantaire whips back around to face the table, finding his hand reaching for the bottle blocked by Jehan’s, who snatches it up instead.

“Leave some for us, it’s only just after half six,” he says, smiling, but shaking his head just slightly, and Grantaire looks away.

“I can’t stay, Ferre, I really – ”

And at that point, Grantaire couldn’t have told anyone what else Apollo was saying, because when he isn’t hissing righteously across a college desk, his voice is far warmer than he had expected. He risks a glance halfway around as if looking towards the bar, catches sight of the stupid Michelangelo curls, far too gold, and swears under his breath. _He really is very pretty_. Grantaire slams his glass onto the table. He feels sick.

“Just half an hour,” he hears Combeferre saying, and Grantaire is on his feet and halfway to the bathroom before he hears anything else.

In the cool dimness of the solitary lamp overhead, Grantaire splashes water on his face from the basin and glares at himself in the mirror above the sink. _Get it together_ , he tells himself, as firmly as he can. _Unexpected socialising isn’t a good reason to go into a panic,_ he adds, as if identifying the problem will make a difference. Against the dark tiles behind him, his face looks slightly green. He turns off the tap. Frowning, he closes his eyes, stomach rolling unpleasantly, then starts as his phone buzzed in his pocket.

**Bambi / 6.27pm**

_hey, u need to head home?_

Grantaire snorts, fingers flying over his screen.

**sent / 6.28pm**

_chill chill chill, I’m all good_

Then, in case it isn’t obvious enough that he really _really_ does not want to have this conversation, he follows up his lie with a truth.

**sent / 6.28pm**

_back out in a minute, Jehan, my man (how’s that for poetry?)_

Slipping his phone back into his pocket, he turns the tap back on and splashes his face once more. Just another hour, he thinks. _An hour, and hopefully Apollo will have left by then_. He makes his way out of the bathroom and back towards the group, who have only become louder in the last five minutes. He battles with his face for a few seconds, trying for anything other than a grimace, and stalks over to them.

Turns out Apollo hasn’t left. In fact, he is being introduced to Jehan as Grantaire changes trajectory and makes a beeline for Eponine.

“Combeferre’s mentioned you guys before, yeah,” he hears Apollo say easily. “And of course I knew Jehan and Marius way back when, too.”

Cosette’s boyfriend dives into the conversation with an exclamation about junior year.

“Remember the Asshole I said I met?” he murmurs to Eponine, who is bussing down the bartop again with a vengeance as he leans against its edge.

“The one with the hair?” she says, grinning 

“That’s the one,” Grantaire mumbles into the Budweiser she has forced into his hands.

Eponine starts talking about Gavroche’s most recent skateboarding Incident, and Grantaire has almost tuned out the conversation happening behind him. Too bad good things don’t last.

“R, hey, R – our resident artist – R, _turn around_ ,” Jehan says, far too loudly to be back on the couches anymore.

A thin hand snakes out, vicelike, and spins him around by his shoulder to face his fate.

“This is Enjolras.”

“I – ”

Apollo frowns, midway through offering his hand, and turns – thank God – to Jehan. Grantaire prays for the ground to swallow him.

“Is that my pen?”

The Stare appears to come in varying levels of intensity; Jehan is in no danger of sudden death.

“Huh?”

Jehan is very lost. Grantaire crosses the fingers of the hand not holding the beer. Maybe he didn’t pray hard enough. Apollo ( _Enjolras_ ) reaches out, plucks the ballpoint from behind Jehan’s ear, and rolls it between his fingers.

“You – left it in class. Today,” Grantaire forces himself to say. “He’s in art theory with me,” he adds to Jehan, and turns back to Enjolras. “ _He’s_ my flatmate.”

Jehan laughs, claps each of them on the shoulder – “You guys will get along fine!” – and turns on his heel to re-join the others. Grantaire wonders if Hades would take him, if no one else.

“Ferre said you guys are like the unofficial student reps,” Enjolras says.

The Apollo effect is definitely stronger close up.

“Sorry?”

“This,” he waves his hand halfway over his shoulder, back towards where Grantaire’s friends are actually having a Good Time. “Your group, or whatever you are. Is that right, ah, sorry, Jehan didn’t – ”

“Grantaire, but R is just fine,” Grantaire mumbles, and hides his face behind his beer for a blessed second.

He swallows, and looks up at Enjolras properly, who is staring back at him with what can only be described as fiery intensity. The Stare: Version 2.0.

“So, is it? I was involved in college politics at my previous – ”

Grantaire can’t help it. He snorts, spilling the head of his beer over his hand, and shakes his head.

“Like, a student rep group?” Enjolras nods, and Grantaire sighs. “I don’t think anyone here’s touched real poli-sci since high school except for Feuilly. But ask literally anyone else. I’m just the resident alcoholic.”

He holds up his glass. One corner of Enjolras’ mouth turns down slightly, and Grantaire can feel his eyes tracking it. He blinks, and looks back at his drink. His own smile slides off his face, lopsided as always, as if weighted to his right.

“That isn’t a particularly funny joke.” Enjolras says slowly.

Grantaire wants to laugh, wants to slap him, wants to slap himself, wants to buy him a beer or fourteen and sit him down and explain how much this is Not A Joke.

“Nah, it isn’t, is it,” he says instead.

His companion is looking over at the others.

“Did Jehan or Ferre introduce you to them?” Grantaire asks, when no other conversation is forthcoming.

Enjolras nods, looking over at them, then says, “I, uh, about class today – ”

Grantaire stares into his beer, wondering if he can drown himself in it.

“Why are you even taking art theory?” he asks, interrupting.

But Enjolras’ phone has lit up and started to buzz.

“Sorry, I’d better, my boss – ”

Grantaire shakes his head, and turns back to where, at the far end of the bar, Eponine is signing off on the roster. Enjolras puts his phone to his ear, and takes a few steps back towards the door.

Of course he has a Real job, Grantaire thinks, but that doesn’t explain the art theory. Still, another functional early-twenties acquaintance to add to his list, another one to compare himself against. Enjolras doesn’t seem older than him, though perhaps younger than Musichetta, who’s twenty-six.

“Alright, is there still some of that tequila left?”

Eponine loops her apron onto one of the hooks behind the bar and steals a sip from Grantaire’s glass.

“Yeah,” he says, gesturing to the low table where Bossuet is helping himself to the liquor in question.

“So, who’s this new guy?” she asks.

“His name’s Enjolras. A friend of Combeferre’s, I think, and possibly Jehan’s?” Grantaire throws back the last of the beer and sets the glass on the bar. “Shall we?”

“You were chatting well enough,” she says, frowning, as they cross the bar.

“Yeah, but remember how I said I met an asshole? He was alright then, but – ”

He can feel the drinks starting to catch up with him now, and the warmth in his fingers and toes is pleasant, numbing.

“He seems fine,” Eponine says over his mumbling.

Grantaire shrugs. They draw level with where Courfeyrac is attempting to toss and catch pretzels into his mouth. Jehan is giggling. Bahorel fist-bumps Eponine, and she takes a seat between him and Musichetta as Combeferre leans across the low table, towards Grantaire.

“How’d you meet – ”

“I’ve known him since elementary school,” Combeferre says, grinning. “Jehan, too, but then his family moved a bunch of times. Why, did you scare him off?”

He shakes his head.

“Doesn’t seem like that’s possible anyway. He took a call,” he adds, nodding over to the door, where Enjolras is frowning at his phone screen, having apparently hung up.

Eponine presses a bowl of pretzels into Grantaire’s hands, and he takes a handful.

“Hey, you have Friday class, right?”

She nods, and helps herself to his pretzels.

“Wanna meet for lunch? Gavroche might drop by in my break, too. Twelve til two, if you’re around,” she says.

“Sure, haven’t seen him for ages. Did you manage to sort out that class clash?”

“Mm, got the form signed by Professor Simplice yesterday.”

He feels himself grinning, more with the tension relief that comes from drinking than with Eponine’s success.

“Awesome,” he hears himself say.

“Waylaid, but not forgotten,” Jehan cries, sudden.

“Er, thanks.”

The chatter dies down a little as Enjolras returns to the table. He might smile a little at Jehan, but Grantaire is staring down the edge of the table. In his periphery, Combeferre pats the barstool beside him, as Cosette asks, “Sorry, Enjolras, wasn’t it?”

He nods, looking polite in the way that Grantaire’s college professors all look polite when processing his medical paperwork. Kind, but impersonal 

“You’re studying here now?”

“Yeah, uh, law. Moved from Chicago,” says Enjolras. “Sorry, I don’t think I remem – ”

“Too many of us,” says Combeferre, apologetic, and promptly chokes on a piece of pretzel.

Courfeyrac thumps him on the back, Musichetta flashes them a sympathetic smile, and Jehan takes the introductions upon himself.

“Alright. Combeferre you know, and me. Currently saving Ferre’s life is Courfeyrac, or Courf, the loud one, so, standard Theatre major. On the other side of Jehan is Feuilly, who I don’t think you met.”

“Poli-sci,” says Feuilly, grinning and leaning across to shake hands.

Enjolras definitely smiles at that, and Grantaire feels his gut clench.

“The gross couple are Marius, who you know, and Cosette, both in primary ed,” Jehan continues, as Cosette waves merrily from her boyfriend’s lap.

“Uhm. I’m Joly. Psychology,” says Joly, tentative, as Jehan pauses to sip what is presumably water, not tequila, given that his glass is slopping liquid over onto his hand.

Joly’s brown hands fidget with the curved handle of his cane as Bossuet, claps him on the shoulder and raises his eyebrows at Enjolras.

“I’m Bossuet, keeping Courf company in Theatre. Joly’s the boyfriend,” he says. “This is our girlfriend, Musichetta.”

His voice sounds suddenly flat. Enjolras looks between the three of them, a crease appearing across his forehead.

“I – nice to meet you all?”

Bossuet visibly relaxes.

“Don’t, Bossuet,” says Combeferre, who is smiling without his eyes. “Enjolras isn’t a bigot.”

Musichetta shakes her head slightly and takes Bossuet’s hand in her lap.

“Had a couple of comments today, is all, Ferre,” she says.

“Sorry to hear,” Enjolras says, and shrugs slightly. “They’re assholes, if affirmation from a stranger will make you feel any better.”

Musichetta offers her hand to shake, and Enjolras takes it. He’s no longer frowning, but the little crease is still there, somehow.

“I’m teaching here now, finished last year, in music,” she adds, as Joly smiles down at his hands, fingers now looped in Bossuet’s free hand, his cane hooked over his knee.

“Right, er, sorry – um, then we have Eponine, in business and art,” says Combeferre.

“Can’t decide, y’know,” she says, and waves, nudging Grantaire’s foot with her own.

“Then Grantaire – R – who you just met,” Jehan cuts in, enthusiastic. “Art and dance.”

“I represent the practical, applicable and economically-viable tertiary student,” Grantaire deadpans, gesturing with his free hand.

His left is still occupied by pretzels. He looks up at Enjolras’ face, where the crease seems to lessened somewhat, and suppresses every attracted particle of his being. They are close enough that they should probably shake hands 

“I was distracted by your pen thievery before, sorry,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire isn’t sure if the twist in the corner of his mouth is derision or mockery or – unlikely, but he can hope – an attempt to suppress a smile. They shake hands. He forces the right side of his mouth into half a smile, and hopes it looks less like a grimace than it feels. It’s a wonder he doesn’t spontaneously combust. Meanwhile, Jehan introduces Bahorel as Courfeyrac stands up.

“Beer,” he announces by way of explanation. “We’re going through the tequila pretty quickly – a standard Thursday tradition,” he adds to Enjolras. “Everyone in?”

“Not me. Gotta drive,” Eponine says, and Musichetta requests a cider instead.

“No worries, Chetta. Everyone else for beer, then,” says Courfeyrac, cheerful, and turns on his heel.

Jehan throws back his glass of water as if it something far stronger, and gets up, offering to help carry the drinks back. Chatting, they make their way to the bar, and Grantaire allows himself a small smile. Jehan has been crushing on Courfeyrac all summer.

“So, bad day?”

Grantaire registers Eponine’s low voice murmuring as he crams the last few pretzels into his mouth.

“Yeah,” Musichetta says quietly. “Three moments. Bossuet’s pretty unhappy about it.”

“Strangers, or – ”

“First one was. Then a sideways comment from a colleague of mine, and a guy from one of Joly’s labs.”

“Known him for years,” Joly interjects, leaning on Bossuet’s knee to join their conversation. “Thought he was alright, actually, til today.”

His voice is shaking slightly, but he is otherwise calm 

“Bastards,” Grantaire barely hears Bossuet hiss, as Enjolras mutters the same thing to himself.

Joly halts mid-breath, looking back at the newcomer.

“Why’d you care?”

If anyone else had said it, it might have sounded painfully rude. In Joly’s voice it’s just painfully earnest. Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“Do you want the reasons in alphabetical or chronological order?”

Musichetta laughs, and presses a kiss to Bossuet’s temple.

“See, not everyone,” she says.

Enjolras presses his lips together, thoughtful.

“Feuilly, wasn’t it?”

Feuilly nods as Enjolras, twirling his reclaimed pen in one hand, searches through his bag between his feet.

“Right – here somewhere, _right_ ,” he mutters, pulling out a student campus guide.

“Nerd,” says Combeferre, affectionately.

“Shut it.”

It has the air of a practised exchange. Enjolras flips the flyer over, the blank back page staring up at them all from the coffee table.

“Feuilly. Poli-sci, right? So I’m also assuming you know how college politics works here – ”

“Not much to know, sorry,” Feuilly replies. “There’s supposedly a student representative office with a handful of undergrad and grad positions, but it got eaten up by the main student office years back.”

“There are a few politics-based student clubs,” Joly pipes up.

“No sway, though, right?”

Feuilly shakes his head.

“Not even an annual review? Student polls on anything?”

He shakes his head again. Enjolras pulls a face, and starts scrawling notes on the flyer.

“Not like it’d make any difference,” Grantaire says, possibly a little louder than he had intended.

A few faces look over at him, even though he only meant for Eponine to hear. Enjolras looks as if his puppy has jut been cheerfully kicked. Combeferre looks just a little nervous.

“It’d make a difference if it _existed_ ,” Enjolras says, as if that’s the end of the argument.

Grantaire can’t suppress a snort of laughter.

“What?” Enjolras snaps.

His intonation is that of a challenge, not a question. Grantaire is only too happy to oblige.

“Seriously, how many students outside of this little nerd brigade do you think would even bother thinking about student politics?”

“Well, the poli-sci students – ” Feuilly begins.

Grantaire shakes his head.

“They think about it but, no offence, most of your classmates don’t care about the Right Now of college student rights.”

Feuilly half shrugs, half nods.

“If there were a _forum_ for it,” Enjolras fumes, “and there should be already, but here we are – ”

“If there were a forum for it, dropkick college kids would draw literal and figurative dicks on it. They wouldn’t use it for useful discussions – ”

“How do you even know that? Sorry if I can’t take you seriously, but – ”

“I don’t take _myself_ seriously, Apollo, I don’t expect you to. My point is that – ”

“Keep in mind that you thought _politician_ was a good insult earlier – ”

“I stand by that,” Grantaire rallies, and glances at the flyer now half-covered in Enjolras’ handwriting. “So your solution is to sweep in, colonialism-style?”

“Guys,” says Feuilly, quietly, as Enjolras looks ready to combust.

“Could you just – ” Enjolras halts, _inhale_ , _exhale_ , and appears to change tack. “All I want to do is find out if there’s an existing policy on sexual discrimination and, if not, do something about it.”

Grantaire blinks, and glances down at the flyer again. _Policy_ , he can make out among the slanted scribbles – an arrow – _query_ – another arrow – _inter-faculty &/or campus-wide – _two more arrows.

“Done this before, then, I take it,” he mutters.

He registers that the rest of the table has fallen quiet some minutes ago, everyone listening in. Courfeyrac and Jehan have returned with beers. Enjolras tosses his pen down on top of the paper.

“We had a similar system when I was in undergrad,” he says, the fire in his voice somewhat dulled.

“Actually, I’d thought it might be something we could introduce,” says Combeferre, glancing around at the group. “Enjolras has told me about what they had at Chicago, and I thought it was a pity we didn’t have something similar here.”

Grantaire can feel that the general consensus of agreement among the group. The tequila on the table looks forlorn and almost empty. Unfortunately, now is not quite the moment to finish it off.

“You could probably wrangle some funding, if we find the right office staff to email,” Musichetta offers.

“Even to register as a normal college society would be easy enough,” says Marius. “Anyone can start one, and get funding through the student office for events and stuff.”

“The teachers’ group got funding for our film night fundraiser last year,” Cosette adds. “Kind of like minor sponsorship.”

“Or you can always work out free food to support an event that way, too,” says Jehan, practically bouncing on his couch cushion.

“Sounds like there’s enough to start with,” Eponine says slowly, looking across at the scrawled flier.

“Those in favour?” Combeferre asks at last, a smile playing at his lips.

Joly and Musichetta nod, and Bossuet smiles. Marius nudges Cosette.

“When can we start?” Bahorel asks. “I want to kick some administrative butt on behalf of my favourite trio.”

Everyone laughs and nods. Enjolras looks serious, glancing around the group.

“ – ten, eleven,” he pauses, half gesturing at Grantaire.

“Twelve?” he offers, more interested in disbanding the seriousness so he can attend to the tequila.

“Thirteen,” Enjolras replies, solemn, and scribbles the number on the corner of his notes.

The ‘meeting’ dissolves into general chatter, during which Grantaire is only too glad to pilfer to the last of the liquor. He can still follow Courfeyrac’s excited babble from the opposite corner of the table.

“We’ll need a name, guys,” he gushes. “A _cool_ one. 

“We need to ask anyone other than Courfeyrac,” Bossuet says quickly, earning a laugh from Joly and Feuilly.

“No one appreciates my genius potential,” Courf sighs. “What was your group called, Enjolras?”

“Er, the ABC,” he says distractedly, frowning at his notes again and scrawling in the margins.

Grantaire can see that he’s writing down all of their names, leaning across to ask Combeferre about spelling every now and then.

“Avast, Bird Calls!” he mutters.

“Caw, caw, motherfuckers,” Eponine says, grinning. “Er, let’s see. All Babies Cry?”

“Americans Break Capitalism,” intones Feuilly, who has heard them, too.

For some reason Bahorel finds this particularly funny.

“Aromatic Buttered Croissants,” says Courfeyrac, and Jehan giggles.

“We didn’t have a real name, we just picked something easy to remember for slogans and whatever,” Enjolras says hazily, still only half listening.

“A, B, C, easy as one, two, three,” Grantaire sings under his breath, before pouring the last of the tequila into his mouth from the bottle.

“Not a bad idea, R,” Combeferre says suddenly.

“Michael Jackson? Of course he was a great idea.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes.

“If we can have three main aims, or ideas, that we stand for, it’ll make a proposal for our group that much easier. We can be the ABC, too, with three _easy_ ways to make changes.”

As Combeferre speaks, the others quieten down again.

“Well. Democratic decisions are a must,” Enjolras says.

A spate of nodding around the table, and he adds it to his notes.

“Er, not sure how you’d simplify this, but an open forum?” suggests Joly. “Um. Anyone can propose any project or idea, as long as it’s reasoned out?”

“Open Forum is as good a phrase as any,” Cosette says, and the others make various noises of approval. “And I think serious consideration of any proposed ideas is covered in that, too.”

They fall quiet again as Enjolras scratches a number three into the last space of white.

“Ugh, this is so _lame_ , but – ” Bossuet scrubs one hand across his eyes, and R realises belatedly that he is trying not to cry, “ – something about coherency, or family connection, like,” he breaks off and gestures around at the group.

“Like, community, but less touchy-feely,” says Eponine.

“I’ll write _community_ and _family_ for now?” Enjolras asks.

“We can work out the wording later on,” Marius says, shrugging.

“Alright,” he replies, and underlines the _ABC_ written in the top right corner.

His lips are curling into a faint smile. Grantaire had thought that the phrase _eyes gleaming_ in novels was an exaggeration, but Enjolras’ Stare is really Something Else.

“I don’t know what this will look like, but why don’t we split up what needs to get done for the current issue at stake. Musichetta,” she meets his eyes, looking determined. “Is there a staff handbook for protocols, or anything like that? Employment expectations?”

She nods readily as the group breaks naturally into smaller conversations. Combeferre pulls out his phone and takes a picture of Enjolras’ notes. Marius frowns down at his own phone, trying to find a Teachers’ Society email from last year sometime. Courfeyrac tosses the last of the pretzels in the air. Jehan catches one in his mouth, screeching with delight. Grantaire wonders if he could slip away now and go to Corinthe, his other bar of choice. While somewhat grimy, he’s always guaranteed drinks and no conversation there. He considers passing on this plan to Eponine and leaving. Tomorrow is Friday. He has no obligations aside from meeting her until Musain work from six in the evening. This week will survive without a sober day. He pretends that this is fine and won’t lead to more weeks like this, and screws the cap back onto the now-empty tequila bottle.

“Jehan, Feuilly, are you going to stick around or head home soon?” he asks.

Courfeyrac has to poke him in the face to get his attention from where he is describing his pretzel-catching antics to Cosette in great detail. Feuilly grins and stands.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got class early tomorrow. You good to go now?”

Grantaire shakes his head.

“I’m heading out. I’ll walk with you, but I’ll come home later on?”

They say a general goodbye to the group at large. He pretends it’s not an issue when Enjolras doesn’t look up from rereading his notes. Out on the street the air is still warm from the day, and slightly sticky. Grantaire and Feuilly spend the walk to the main intersection teasing about Courfeyrac until their paths split. Jehan laughs, tipsy.

 

<> 

 

Grantaire stays at Corinthe until half past eleven, until the walls start to sway from the vodka-tequila cocktail buzzing in his blood. When he gets back to the flat, Feuilly is dozing at one end of the couch. Jehan is settled at the other end with a fistful of biology reports. The living area is dim, lit by the single lamp on the coffee table.

“Ferre messaged,” Feuilly says, yawning and squinting at his phone as Grantaire closes the door behind him. “Enjolras suggested Monday night to reconvene on ABC stuff.”

“Water,” he says, instead of replying, and roots around in the cupboard above the sink for a mug.

It takes longer than he expects.

“D’you have class tomorrow?” Jehan asks, not looking up from the blurry photocopy of a graph.

“Nope.”

“Won’t wake you, then,” Feuilly says, swallowing another yawn and stumbling to his feet. “Night, you two.”

After Feuilly’s light switches off and Grantaire has replaced him on the couch, Jehan tosses his readings aside.

“Why don’t you like Enjolras?”

Grantaire blinks.

“Can this wait til I’m less drunk?”

Jehan shakes his head.

“I don’t _not_ like him,” he mumbles. “I met him this afternoon, in art theory – who knows what he was doing there, anyway, law students – I, um, he was just a bit of an asshole?”

He is slurring more than he anticipated. His housemate seems to have noticed.

“Mm, alright. Maybe go sleep, R,” Jehan says, gently.

“Too keyed up,” he says, and stands to refill his mug.

“You alright?”  
  
If there’s something Jehan does too well, it’s concern. Grantaire’s eyes are prickling in the corners.

“Just – ” he puts down his mug too hard on the kitchen bench and takes a steadying breath. “Look, I think so?”

“Get to know Enjolras,” Jehan advises. “He’s pretty great, I think you could get along.”

Grantaire stares absently at the kitchen counter for another few seconds.

“I’m going to say are you okay again but not in a mom way so don’t take this as me bugging you,” Jehan says in one breath, and Grantaire feels his mouth twitch into the semblance of a smile.

“I’m alright,” he hears himself say. “Thanks.”

Behind him, Jehan gathers up the reports and his own empty mug. Rinsing the latter, he keeps his eyes on his hands.

“You done for tonight?”

Grantaire swallows. His housemates aren’t aware of how much alcohol is in his room. He keeps most of it in the kitchen, where, after a brutal incident of alcohol poisoning last year, Jehan demanded to at least know when Grantaire was drinking so he knew what to do when he passed out. Grantaire had folded at that, but his stash has crept up over summer, and it’s in the back of his wardrobe at the moment, like he’s fifteen again. He feels even younger.

“I’m alright, Jehan.”

Jehan sets his mug to drain on the side of the sink and doesn’t look at him.

“You’re alright,” he says back at him, and smiles as he turns away. “Goodnight, R.”

Grantaire only takes another few swigs from the whiskey flask table before crawling into bed. If he has a dream about Enjolras taking over college armed with a flagon of whiskey and one of Grantaire’s stolen paintbrushes, he doesn’t remember it in the morning.

 

<> 

 

He only turns up to the ABC meeting on Monday because Jehan insists on it, even though he’s working the same shift as Eponine was last time, so he’s late to the discussion. Jehan may have promised him a beer as leverage.

**Ferre Dinkum / 2.03pm**

_Hey alphabet friends, 6pm at Musain to reconvene about terrible college politics, etc. See you there!_

**sent / 4.34pm**

_I’m working til 7. might say hi but no promises?_

**Ferre Dinkum / 4.36pm**

_Sure/see you in passing, for sure!_

**Bambi / 4.40pm**

_Coming tonight? You should! :) :)_

**sent / 5.01pm**

_working til 7. maybe for a bit?_

**Bambi / 5.09pm**

_Pls come. I want Enjolras to prove you wrong_

**sent / 5.10pm**

_only if the kind Mr Prouvaire contributes the the Grantaire Likes Beer fund_

**Bambi / 5.13pm**

_Is one beer enough of a contribution?_

**sent / 5.46pm**

_sorry, bar got busy._

**sent / 5.47pm**

_I’ll drop by :)_

**Bambi / 5.48pm**

_Only. One._

However, by the time he signs off behind the bar and pours himself the beer in question, Feuilly and Enjolras are poring over Musichetta’s employment handbook, with Bahorel’s occasional contributions. The main discussion seems to be over. It’s eight o’clock, because Valjean had to come late at last minute and Grantaire was happy to work the extra hour.

“Alright, social justice buddies, how’d we go?”

Enjolras fixes him with a glare that could set something alight.

“Going well then?”

A corner of his mouth turns down as Feuilly, unaware, grins at Grantaire.

“Yeah, actually. Turns out Musichetta’s colleague was an _illegal_ asshole, not just a regular one.”

“Regular assholes. The worst, ” Grantaire agrees.

Bossuet and Eponine haven’t made it tonight, tied up respectively with study and brother supervision. Everyone else is crammed around the table, taking notes on their phones (in the case of Bahorel, alternating between reading bad puns from his Facebook feed and giving mock legal advice), or adding their own two cents as called upon.

Combeferre is typing furiously as Enjolras reads portions of the booklet aloud.

“… _regarding personal information_. That last part’s on page fourteen, Ferre,” he adds, and flicks the book closed. “Thank you,” he says, passing it to Musichetta, who tucks it into her bag.

“So I’m assuming he’s illegal in that the discrimination is counted as against his contract, or whatever,” Grantaire says slowly, and Cosette nods at him. “Anyone else with you when the bigot made his comment, Chetta?”

Musichetta frowns slightly as he drains his glass.

“No. Don’t think he would have said anything if there was.”

“How’re you going to do anything about this, then?” Grantaire asks bluntly, directing his question at Enjolras.

“Unwitnessed doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” he hisses.

Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“Look, I’m always amazed at anything that isn’t pessimism. I want to believe in – ” he gestures vaguely around the table, “ – whatever this is. But if it’s Chetta’s word, who’s going to listen?”

Joly bristles at that, and Musichetta hushes him.

“I don’t mean it like that, Jollly. I love Chetta, too, but – ”

“ – but as we established last week, people like to draw literal and figurative dicks on forums instead of engaging?”

Enjolras is seething, eyes bright, and Grantaire hadn’t predicted such a rapid rise in temper.

“Hey, chill, Apollo. I just want to know how you’ll deal with the whole reporting thing without a witness.”

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose, eyebrows drawn together in apparent pain.

“I don’t want to argue in circles for the next hour, R. If you’d been here the last hour you’d know there’s a system for reporting mistreatment among staff and students,” he starts to say heatedly.

“Hey, you two, take a breather,” Combeferre cuts in.

He closes his laptop and prods Enjolras’ arm.

“ _You’re_ getting a migraine,” he says. “Go home. R, I know you like the stirring the pot, but you’re probably also not on top of your game after, what, eight hours on your feet?”

Grantaire shrugs. Enjolras slumps back into the couch, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt. It’s a proper shirt, and he’s wearing dress pants, a dark tie crammed into his breast pocket. Grantaire feels self conscious of the only jeans he could find this morning, stumbling out of bed at fourteen minutes to midday and getting ready to the tune of _fuck fuckity fuck_. He had only been five minutes late to the shift, but he must have looked like shit, because Valjean had let him take an extra fifteen in his break. Sunday night he hadn’t gotten home from Corinthe til past one. He might have gone to bed at six or seven. He can’t be sure.

“We’ve got class tomorrow, Apollo,” he says, leaning across the table. “We can continue the argument then, and you can explain why the hell you’re dressed for the real world but taking art theory.”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras snaps, but with less fervour than before.

He looks shattered. Grantaire wants to tell him to go home and sleep, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Na zdrowie is the Polish equivalent of “cheers” (and also “bless you”, incidentally)
> 
> 10 points if you can work out what the ABC’s three points are based on (50 points if you can get me to shut up about lame parallels in AU fic/good luck with that) 
> 
> EDIT: a friend told me I wasn't American enough in a few spots, so I changed some terminology
> 
> \---
> 
> I'm hoping to get a few chapters of this out before Christmas, but then production levels might slow down a bit.
> 
> edit: hoping for a chapter every two weeks or so, at this rate :)
> 
> In the mean time, thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, etc. much appreciated :) (or you can come say [hi on tumblr](http://herringbonefic.tumblr.com))


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The indie is strong with this one,” Grantaire says. “Ooh, poetry and everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for the following: more-direct-than-usual stuff about alcoholism and Grantaire’s anxiety, multiple brief mentions of vomiting. Also multiple Star Wars references.

**EP / 11.12am**

_Want to get lunch?_

**sent / 11.12am**

_I’m nursing a decent hangover. I’ll come wince over an espresso, though?_

**EP / 11.13am**

_Yeah alright I finish at 12_

**sent / 11.16am**

_I’d better shower. where’s your class?_

**EP / 11.17am**

_Biggs lecture_

**sent / 11.17am**

_I’ll meet you out front_

“The sun deserves a fiery death,” Grantaire says hoarsely, as Eponine joins him on the stairs of the John Biggs Centre.

“Come on, grump, you need some food.”

“I might vomit,” he mutters, but follows her through the milling students to a tiny café tucked away outside between Biggs and one of the older college buildings.

His, Feuilly and Jehan’s place is five minutes walk from main campus in a block of student flats owned by the university. The real colleges are dotted on the map between faculty offices.

“Drink up,” Eponine says firmly, slamming a glass down on their little table with a bottle of water. “All of it.”

“Hey, I managed high school without nurturing, I don’t need my friends turning into moms,” he protests, but pours himself a glass.

“Still want that coffee?”

He nods, and she orders drinks and a cake brusquely from the counter. She brings back a book with a large number _eighteen_ splashed across its over in white paint. He winces at the way it has soaked only partially into the cloth bookbinding, and flips it open.

“The indie is strong with this one,” Grantaire says. “Ooh, poetry and everything.”

“Also the only place where you like the coffee, other than Musain.”

“True,” he says, shutting the book, and sips at his water. “How was class?”

“Ugh, same old.”

It’s a Wednesday. Grantaire should be in the studios by now, working on sketches or something, but yesterday had been a little too much to process. After choreography from twelve until two, and waiting half an hour for showers in the gym, sitting in his art history lecture beside Enjolras had proved more distracting than anything else. To pass the time, he sketched sparrows in his margins and didn’t hear a word the lecturer said about depicting revolutions. He’d then had to rush back to the dance studios for class, and when it reached five he was ready to scream. He’d bumped into Enjolras after that, leaving the library laden with textbooks, gotten into an argument about student loans, and stifled the urge to shake some pessimistic sense into him.

A few minutes before midnight he had found himself halfway through Star Wars Episode Three, in an attempt to drown out the buzzing under his skin, accompanied by cheap wine and Feuilly, who has Wednesdays off from class.

“Can’t decide ‘f this is the worst or the bes’ episode,” Feuilly had slurred into Grantaire’s ear, soon after Anakin started threatening Padawans.

“Wookies are the best part of any of them,” Grantaire had mumbled back, rather than attempting to form an opinion.

He had been focusing on the color and composition of every shot, not the plot material. When Feuilly went to bed, he had dragged himself to the bathroom, recited every insult he could think of under his breath to the Grantaire in the mirror above the sink, made himself take a shower, wrapped himself in his towel, retrieved the last of the wine from the coffee table, and sat at the foot of his bed, alternating between it and the whiskey flask until the sun rose.

Sitting opposite Eponine now, he wonders why she puts up with him.

“Speaking of class,” she says now, as the nervous girl behind the counter brings out their coffee, “how’s your art project coming along?”

“Mabeuf wants me to die,” he says in a low voice. “I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing. Why did he let me – ”

“Hey, shut up,” Eponine says, somehow affectionate. “What’s your plan?”

“More palette knife stuff, I think,” he says. “Layers of paint, layers of people. That can be the wanky working title until I think of something more ambiguous. _Windows_. _Project fifteen_. _Blanket fort._ I hate art.”

Eponine taps the side of his now-empty water glass meaningfully. He refills it, glaring at the table.

“Can I paint you?” he adds.

Her hands freeze around her cup.

“Why?”

“You of all people understand the chosen family shit,” he mutters. “Gavroche counts, too. Can I paint you?”

She blinks hard a few times, and downs the rest of the piping espresso.

“I guess.”

“You’re the best.”

She snorts.

“Nah. Who else will you paint, then?”

“Jehan. And then I thought places as well. Musain. The studio? Self-reflexive stuff? This is seriously the worst idea I’ve had so far, nothing against the idea of painting you, Ep. But Mabeuf is going to hate it.”

His mouth is moving a lot faster than his brain. How he can somehow create and curate a collection in a year is beyond him, never mind making it something he doesn’t want to set fire to by the end of it.

“Not sure if that’ll be its final form?” Eponine asks, cautious.

“Hey, I’m not as fragile as your pottery projects, I can take criticism,” says Grantaire, grinning. “It’s objectively not good yet, but I guess I’ll think of something. I’ll have to, even if it means not sleeping for the week before the exhibition.”

He sips at his coffee, now cooler, and winces as it curls in his stomach.

“What art stuff are you doing this semester?”

“Asian ceramics and printing, which makes me sound super racist but it’s already pretty excellent, and that Environment one you did last year,” she says, pulling a face.

He matches her expression. AP: Nature and the Environment in Contemporary Art Practices (6 credit points) had been his idea of hell on earth, with a lot of hippie vibes and very little scope for painting. Eponine mostly did sculpture, though, so she’d be fine.

“Gross,” he says anyway. “Ceramics and whatnot sounds good, maybe I’ll take it later on, if you don’t hate it by the end.”

Outside, the sun is starting to beat down. Someone’s bicycle is tethered to a tree, and the light is glancing off the left handbrake and through the café window into Grantaire’s eyes. He slouches further into his chair, surprised that it’s possible.

“I thought I might head to the studio now,” he says. “Just for an hour or two, do some sketches. Then I’d better read over theory stuff in case Enjolras threatens murder again tomorrow.”

Eponine snorts.

“Why’s he even taking _art theory_ of all things?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“So he’s got his law degree shit as you’d expect, but he could elect to take an internship. College wants him to do fifteen hours for it to count as a subject,” Eponine pulls a face, “yeah, gross, right? Anyway, turns out the office he lined up with only wants him for eight or nine hours at most.”

“So they told him to take a random elective to make up the difference?”

“Yeah. Said he was already interested in the topic, and the office told him he could take any three-point subject.”

Grantaire pours himself the last of the water. After a moment’s silence, Eponine chuckles to herself.

“Is he as much of a know-it-all in class as I’m thinking he must be?” she asks.

“Ugh, he’s _worse_. He did History and Poli-Sci, double majors, so he literally knows everything already.”

He gulps down the water and chases it with lukewarm coffee as Eponine teases, “I don’t know what’s cuter, R, that you’re jealous or that you like him.”

He groans, and buries his face in his hands.

“Sorry, love,” she says, patting him on the shoulder in mock sympathy. “You’ve got it bad.”

“It’s alright,” he mutters. “Musain arguments are still pretty staple. I’m not stupid enough to not recognise a hopeless case when I see one.”

Enjolras is definitely an asshole. Via a series of interactions spread between Musain discussions and art theory arguments about practical applications of socialism, Grantaire has now spent enough time with him to defend this conclusion. ABC meetings have become somewhat more settled as they’ve set up a routine – Mondays and Thursdays from six in the evening – and Combeferre has banned them from needling each other until the meeting is officially adjourned, or it’s later than half past eight. They usually only bicker, but occasionally the arguments grow out of proportion.

“Besides,” Grantaire adds, after a few seconds, “can you even see Enjolras liking anyone?”

“Not exactly,” says Eponine.

Grantaire takes a moment to entertain the hilarity of literally anyone trying to hold Enjolras’ hand. He’d probably ask them to stop impinging on his personal space, and file a complaint. Meanwhile, Eponine digs out her planner from her bag and consults the inside of the back cover.

“I’ve got to head to ceramics at one, anyway. Want to head over early?” she asks. “I can help you throw paint around for fifteen minutes, if it’ll make you feel better.”

They make their way to Centenary building, where Fine Arts and Language Studies fight for supremacy over the larger classroom spaces, and Art generally wins. They wander through the main entrance – Eponine detours via the bathroom – and file upstairs to the workshops. Courtesy of his independent project, and Mabeuf’s misguided favoritism, Grantaire has scored an albeit-tiny workshop of his own. It might have been a storage cupboard at one point.

Eponine helps him roll out a length of butcher’s paper and tack it to one wall, then flicks the switch on the portable radio below the windowsill. He’s always liked murals, and he can’t afford enough canvases to experiment on one every time he gets an idea. The radio starts spitting something suitably trashy; top 40s charts from last year, probably. Grantaire fiddles with the dial for a bit, but the static in the background is still there.

“Alright, quick sketch time, my friend,” says Eponine.

“Huh?”

He straightens up from the radio to face her. She has curled up and made herself comfortable on his former kitchen chair, the only piece of furniture in the room.

“Sketch me. I’ve gotta leave in ten minutes, so it’s a compulsory timed drawing event sanctioned by yours truly. I’m going to read this chapter – ” she holds up a business textbook, “ – and you’re going to draw me.”

He grins.

True to her word, she leaves ten minutes later, and Grantaire is left to fuss over the shape of her eyebrows without a live reference. He is struck by the close-to-perfect symmetry of her lips, as his sketch of her glares down at an imaginary book. Biting at his own uneven lower lip, he frowns as she takes her symmetrical shape more fully on the butcher’s paper. Another half an hour later, all he has gained is maybe three or four more grey brushstrokes on his hands, a half-hearted redrawing attempt, and nausea. He curls up in the chair for a few moments before remembering he hasn’t eaten, and drags himself downstairs to the Centenary café to buy juice and grilled cheese. He hasn’t had anything to drink yet, either, but he’ll push through until he gets home.

On his way back upstairs he passes Mabeuf’s office, backtracks, and knocks.

“Afternoon,” says the professor, looking faintly bemused. “It’s very early in the semester for you to be here.”

Grantaire shrugs, and gestures at his food.

“Do you mind if I – ”

“Go for it, I’m not teaching for another half an hour. Sit down, if you want,” Mabeuf adds, settling himself back at his desk.

Grantaire perches on the chair opposite him and munches steadily through his sandwich. After a few minutes, he feels brave enough to broach the topic.

“So. Independent project,” he says.

“Oh? Do tell,” says Mabeuf, taking his eyes off the essay he’s marking.

“Um. Okay. Let me explain the stupid way, and then we can work out what I really mean.”

“Naturally.”

This is what Grantaire likes about Mabeuf. Sure, the professor probably thinks he’s mentally deficient, but they’re always on the same page when it comes to navigating said stupidity.

“I want to do something about chosen family – like, as opposed to biological – and chosen homes,” Grantaire gets out all in one breath.

Mabeuf raises an eyebrow.

“More of the palette knife stuff, like I did for last year, I don’t know if you – ”

“With the harbour scenes?”

Grantaire nods.

“But the complete opposite. Highly personal, I take it, rather than impersonal,” Mabeuf says slowly.

“I guess,” says Grantaire, untwisting the cap on his juice, which _pops_ faintly when the seal breaks.

Taking off his glasses, Mabeuf puts them on top of his marking and resumes looking at him. He shifts in his seat.

“I think you should do it.”

Grantaire nearly spits out his mouthful of juice.

“You need to do something you care about,” says Mabeuf, shrugging. “This is probably a good way to go about it, if you think you can manage.”

“I always manage,” says Grantaire, quiet.

“No, you don’t,” Mabeuf counters.

Grantaire attempts something between a shrug and a laugh.

“Nothing wrong with that,” the professor adds, stern. “But how about you bring me some sketches sometime by the end of this month. We can see how you’re doing by then.”

Later, when Grantaire is back in the cupboard studio, he can’t help but laugh. Mabeuf is a wild card professor. He might yell one day or be civil the next, but he’s never generous with compliments. Still, maybe, just maybe, he’ll manage to finish this degree.

If he could just get Eponine’s eyebrows right, now, that’d be a great start.

 

<> 

 

The next day, in the afternoon, Grantaire is early to art theory. It’s the only class he has on Thursdays, and aside from working the graveyard shift til four in the morning, he hasn’t got other plans. Usually he sleeps til midday, finds some food and does the readings, and turns up in time to sidle in just before class starts. Today he’s been in on campus since eleven, sketching furiously. Talking to Mabeuf has triggered some kind of manic energy he can’t rid himself of yet, and he’s going to ride it out until he burns out.

Speaking of burning out, though, Enjolras is already outside their classroom when Grantaire arrives.

More accurately, Enjolras is slumped down beside the doorway, curls thrown back against the wall, eyes closed. It is half past three. Grantaire leans against the opposite wall and slides down to mirror him. If he’d had more sleep himself last night, he might have risked a _hello_ , but even he knows where to draw the line at an overtired Enjolras, who is all the more terrible when running on exhaustion and rage.

When he uncaps the bottle of juice he bought on his way, though, Enjolras cracks an eye open.

“Hey,” he says, hoarse, and promptly closes it again.

“Rough day?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras might shrug, but it’s more of a twitch than anything else. Grantaire sips at his juice. It’s warm again today, and he’s grateful for the cool mango and orange, but the morning is catching up to him and he needs caffeine.

A few more minutes pass, and he finishes the juice. He caps and uncaps the bottle, fidgeting with the lid and wondering if he should buy coffee. Edit: wondering if he should offer to buy one for Enjolras. Are they friends enough for that to be okay? Will Enjolras Stare him down?

“Uh,” he starts to say, and Enjolras doesn’t move.

_Inhale. Exhale._

“I might grab a coffee, would you – ”

“Please.”

The crease so often carved between Enjolras’ eyes is more pronounced than usual. Still closed, though.

“Okay, what d’you want?”

“Whatev – whatever you’re having. No sugar.”

It sounds as if every word is an effort. Grantaire wonders if he should check if he’s sick or something, but that seems very much Combeferre or Jehan or Insert-Other-Good-Friend-Here Territory.

“Be right back,” he says instead, and leaves his bag opposite Enjolras.

When he returns with two cups a few moments later, the scene is as he left it.

“Enjolras,” he says, tentative.

Clearly disoriented, Enjolras jerks his head forward, eyes snapping open, and looks about him.

“I –what?”

“Sorry, you might have been – ”

 _Asleep_ , Grantaire was going to say, but Enjolras looks up at him properly, sees the coffee, and murmurs, “Thanks.”

He takes the cup from Grantaire’s hands and cradles it between his own.

“All good,” he says, sipping at his own.

When Lamarque arrives and ushers those who have arrived inside, Enjolras only seems to barely manage the ten metres from doorway to a desk. He sinks into a chair, drains the remainder of the coffee, and buries his face in his hands. The guy on Enjolras’ left isn’t brave enough to disrupt him, and the worksheets pass him by. From his own seat two desks away, Grantaire takes two copies.

They are discussing portraiture today, with a particular focus on the differences between royal and political representations. If it were any other day, Grantaire is sure they would be treated to majestic (ah, the irony) but terrifying commentary on the horrors of regent leadership and the like.

It is not any other day. The hour passes, and Enjolras isn’t asleep, but when he isn’t examining the palms of his hands in great detail, he’s staring at the left corner of the professor’s desk. It is very quiet, with only the professor’s voice and the occasional raised hand and answer to a question. Grantaire takes notes in the margin of one worksheet, and adds a moustache to the grainy black-and-white version of Elizabeth I. At the end of the hour, he remembers that there’s an ABC meeting at six. Lamarque dismisses them just before five.

“Hey, uh,” he says, making his way to Enjolras’ desk.

He passes him the graffitied worksheet.

“I – thanks.”

Enjolras scrubs at his eyes. He looks young, like a child insisting they aren’t tired.

“All good. You going tonight?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras grunts, reaching with what seems to be considerable effort to pick up his bag from the floor.

Grantaire blinks. Apparently his expression betrays his thoughts, because Enjolras turns on him with an albeit-pathetic version of his usual glare.

“What?”

Grantaire has to look away.

“Nothing. You look tired,” he says, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder, eyes still down.

“Thanks,” Enjolras mutters.

“It’s only October, you know. Busy?”

“Hell on earth,” says Enjolras, and won’t elaborate further. “Musain?”

Grantaire only goes to ABC meetings for two reasons. The first is that his friends are all there and it’s as good an excuse as any other to see most of them at once. Sure, he lives with Jehan and Feuilly, and sees Eponine often enough, but Musain has always been a hub for their group, and he can’t shake the habit, even if he doesn’t really care about Changing The World.

The second is to watch Enjolras Care About Changing The World, because that’s entertainment like no other.

“Better than a soap opera,” he has been known to mutter to Musichetta, more than once.

Moreover, watching Enjolras being passionate about anything comes with the territory of winding him up, much to his alternate terror and joy, or perhaps a strange combination of the two.

Tonight, neither of the reasons are holding up well.

When they reach Musain, Enjolras musters up energy from somewhere to greet everyone there: Feuilly, Marius, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, and Bossuet. Grantaire thinks Jehan might be finishing a report. The others he’s not sure, but their depleted ranks are still willing to dive into discussion.

Combeferre all but lectures Enjolras as he throws himself onto a couch.

“You slept recently?”

Enjolras sniggers, actually _sniggers_ , like a storybook villain, and shakes his head.

“I’ll sleep next week,” he says shortly, when Combeferre tries to say something else. “To business, first.”

Marius is proposing some more work in terms of student politics as a whole, having looked more thoroughly into college’s history with it. Grantaire only half listens, but apparently the student representative office fell through about a decade back when funding was down.

“I thought it might be worth our while organizing some kind of student voice campaign or activity,” Marius says.

Grantaire sips his second beer. Joly suggests checking up on college society rules about public events. Combeferre types notes at an alarming pace.

The following half an hour is even more boring than usual, primarily because Enjolras doesn’t interject at any point. Bossuet shoots Grantaire a quizzical look, who returns it, mouthing _I dunno_ over Enjolras’ bowed head.

Combeferre wraps up the meeting early, when they’ve discussed the campaign to death. In typical mid-semester fashion, everyone is wilting slightly in their seats.

“I’ll email out the minutes,” he says.

“I can do it,” Enjolras protests, looking up from where he has been eyeballing the floor between his feet. “You’re working tomorrow.”

“You need a break,” Combeferre retorts, sharp.

It is perhaps the first time Grantaire has heard him come anywhere near snapping at someone. More surprising is the fact that it’s directed at Enjolras of all people. They had agreed some weeks previously to share typing up the notes and proposals, given that Combeferre has Tuesdays free. The unexpected conflict feels cold, as if Grantaire has just swallowed several ice cubes.

“No, seriously,” says Enjolras.

“Seriously,” Combeferre replies, firm, slipping his laptop into his messenger bag. “Night, everyone, I’m heading home.”

To general farewells, he leaves, followed soon after by Marius and Courfeyrac. Joly and Bossuet are still snuggled in their couch corner, the former very pink in the face. The latter leans forward towards Grantaire.

“So can you make it after Halloween?”

Bossuet is hosting a house party and inviting, well, _everyone_. His housemates are in the habit of it every other day, but they’re away for a practical subject a few hours north that week.

“It’s a Friday, right? I’ll be there,” says Feuilly, downing the last of his beer. “I assume the rest of our flat will, too.”

“I’ll swap shifts for work,” Grantaire tells them.

His stomach is still cold. Enjolras hasn’t moved since Combeferre’s farewell, back to staring at the floor. He tells himself to ignore him, and offers to buy drinks.

“Ah, please,” says Bossuet, then adds, “not for Joly.”

Joly pouts for a second, giggles at nothing in particular, and winces. Bossuet prods his arm.

“You alright?”

“Fine, fine. Can you get us some water, R?”

Joly rubs his hands together slowly, pulls another face, and Grantaire hears him explaining the effect of alcohol on his joints to Feuilly as he heads to the bar.

When Grantaire returns, though, Enjolras is sitting forward and frowning, and Bossuet is fuming. Feuilly is glancing between them, looking concerned.

“They _what?_ ”

“I –yeah, it’s just, it’s _fine_ , Bossuet,” Joly mumbles.

“Doesn’t sound it.”

Enjolras is very quiet. It’s almost scarier than when he’s spouting impassioned rants to all and sundry.

“Er, what’s – ” Grantaire starts to say.

Joly sighs.

“Just college paperwork to get extensions for stuff.”

“He’s only given a certain amount per semester,” Bossuet gets out from between gritted teeth. “But it’s _tiny_.”

“Four weeks is alright,” his boyfriend mumbles.

“This term is seventeen weeks, and you’re only out of the house four days out of seven at most,” Enjolras spits. “That’s just – ”

“Impersonal? Stupid? Welcome to college,” Grantaire says, slamming the beers he’s just bought onto their little table. “Water, be right back.”

He turns on his heel to retrieve the water from the bar, and comes back to Bossuet and Enjolras still arguing, hushed, with Joly.

“That isn’t _right_ , though, can you apply for extra consideration, or something?”

“Please,” Joly blurts out suddenly.

Bossuet, wide-eyed, shifts in his seat.

“Are you – ”

“Yeah, I,” Joly takes a deep breath and ploughs on. “I like coming here, and I like talking about the stuff that’s important, but right now can’t we just – ” he breaks off.

“Sorry,” says a quiet voice.

It’s Enjolras, and Grantaire would make a quip about learning to apologise, finally, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at Joly. Guilt, almost, or, well, Grantaire isn’t sure.

“Sorry,” he says again.

“It’s – okay,” Joly manages.

He is tapping his fingernails against his cane in a shaky tattoo, and his boyfriend looks stricken. Feuilly breaks the silence.

“Let’s leave the politics versions of ourselves aside for a bit. Bossuet, the important question is this: are you going to have trashy music at this party of yours?”

Feuilly has a knack for assessing and redirecting conversations heading for destruction, and Grantaire could hug him. He won’t, his stomach still in knots.

“I – ” Bossuet pauses, looks to Joly as if for approval, and cracks a smile. “Yeah. It’s going to be excellent.”

“Only the best trash, I hope,” says Feuilly, utterly serious.

“High quality trash,” Joly says quietly, smiling. “Just for you.”

“Not for the rest of us?” Grantaire quips.

“Compulsory dancing. Even you, Enjolras,” says Bossuet.

Enjolras makes a noise and Grantaire, turning to face him, is nonplussed, because Enjolras is laughing and may the lord help him, he’s seen an angel _laughing_.

“Bossuet, you have no idea – ” Enjolras swallows a mouthful of beer, and wipes the foam from his upper lip. Grantaire blinks. “I really cannot dance.”

“Nonsense,” says Joly, and wiggles his hips somehow from the confines of the couch.

“Honestly,” Enjolras says, taking another sip of beer. “Two left feet and all that. I’ll dance for Bossuet, but only if its compulsory.”

“The ABC’s fourth rule should be compulsory dancing,” says Grantaire. “A, B, C, D-for-dancing.”

His mouth is somehow still carrying on with conversation, but he can’t take his eyes from Enjolras, who is carrying out a Normal Conversation in his very presence. It’s only because he isn’t goading him on, but whatever. He takes a breath _in_ , _out_.

“Shut up, Mr Dance Major,” replies Bossuet.

“Don’t be such a Drama Queen,” Grantaire tells him, grinning.

Enjolras drains his glass, shooting an inscrutable look towards him, and Bossuet and Feuilly down their own drinks soon afterwards. Grantaire’s, already empty, is looking lonely on the table. Enjolras slumps back into his seat, eyes closed. It’s painfully reminiscent of his pose earlier, before art theory. The spurt of energy for conversation has well and truly petered out.

“We might head home,” Joly says, after another ten or fifteen minutes.

He limps out, right hand linked with Bossuet’s, and Feuilly follows them soon after. Grantaire’s stomach is coiling painfully; he’d rather fill it with alcohol at Corinthe than deal with conflict. Enjolras watches them leave before turning back to Grantaire.

“Between the three of them, they get so much shit,” he says, and his eyes are dull.

Grantaire bites back his usual pessimism. He’s not sure of Musichetta and her boys would appreciate pity, but this isn’t. Enjolras looks, well, almost defeated.

“Not like you to give up,” he finds himself saying.

“I’m not,” Enjolras says. “Just haven’t found a way to help.”

Grantaire shrugs, and stacks their empty glasses into a tower.

“Even if I thought it was possible, you’re only one person.”

“There are thirteen of us – ”

“Twelve, seeing as I don’t exactly help you guys,” Grantaire cuts in.

“You’re here every meeting,” he says bluntly.

Grantaire can’t think what to say to that, aside from, “I’m heading out in a bit. You good getting home?”

“’Course. I take it that’s not meant to be an invitation,” Enjolras says, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope,” replies Grantaire. “I’m just going to get smashed then stagger home. Not good company. Trust me.”

Enjolras just looks at him, expression unreadable.

“That’s not an exaggeration, is it,” he says eventually, his lips press together in a thin line.

Grantaire recalls too late that this isn’t a friendship.

“Well, let’s go,” he says shortly, and stands.

Enjolras follows him to the Musain door.

“Have fun in class tomorrow, Apollo,” he can’t resist saying.

 _Apollo_ doesn’t look at him, and turns right, while Grantaire turns left. Musain’s door swings shut.

 

<> 

 

Sometimes Grantaire forgets that in his green and fresh-faced first year at college, he decided to take a double major. Sure, most of his classmates weren’t even thinking that far ahead, but he knew he wanted art and dancing equally from the start. He also really fucked up that plan.

This semester he’s managed to find a class that he won’t fail by default, because the major projects are choreographic. It’s the practical course for the choreography capstone unit – DT: Advanced Movement Choreography (6 credit points) – and it counts as normal dance credits even though Grantaire’s mainly taken performance units. More importantly, his drinking habits won’t affect his marks. Much.

The professor is lithe and thin and terrifying and walks with a limp. Grantaire takes a moment to smile to himself, and allows the right side of his mouth to drop fully into a smirk. Ballet career cut short, no doubt, but she has an air about her that suggests she actually cares about the class. It’s refreshing, compared to the onslaught of failed _artistes_ they so often have as teachers.

“War and peace,” she says, and Professor Floreal’s voice is impressive, commands attention, and Grantaire actually listens. “That’s your framework for the major assessment. You can choose either individually, or both. Up to you.”

He considers the terms evenly as she keeps talking.

“You need to incorporate two of each thing, so it’s easy to remember. Two styles,” she says, and her weight shifts slight from one foot to the other.

She is standing roughly in fourth – her alignment is perfect, of course – and Grantaire grins.

“Two styles,” Floreal repeats. “That being said, I don’t take lyrical and contemporary as separate. Talk to me if you’re unsure. Then you have your two concepts, war and peace, and finally, two assessments. Thesis students, your minor written assessment is of course a response to your process.”

She goes on for a couple more minutes, reminding them that they must hand in process journal _and_ rehearsal tapes on the due date.

Grantaire will probably focus around war rather than peace, if only to give him an excuse to look irritable. He’s gotten sick of explaining why he’s so often frowning at the dark vinyl tape between his feet during class. Usually it’s because he’s trying not to throw up, but sometimes it’s just because he’s trying to decide between different _battement_.

“You’re allowed to perform your own final work,” Floreal is saying, “but it’s not a requirement.”

Grantaire swallows. He has set aside Tuesday as his dry day because both of the choreography classes are on Tuesdays. Last year, in the semester he was actually studying, he scraped passes in the dance subjects he took through a combination of luck and, well, no, just luck. The professor marking the performances had possibly been more hungover than him.

He couldn’t keep up with the drinking and the performance subjects. Now, in Floreal’s choreographic haven, he could maybe regain some physicality without the pressure of double and triple _tours_. Turning while drunk isn’t an experience he wants to repeat.

But there’s no one he knows in this class, and so the performance will almost definitely have to be himself. For once, he might have to make the process count for something.

After class, he stops by the horrendously-overpriced stationary store. He feels more self-conscious than usual still in tights and an old t-shirt, though he’s found old hockey shorts from more nightmarish high school years to wear over tights to and from the studios. Scouting through the shelves of notebooks, he finds one that isn’t top art quality but has nice enough paper and a green cover, and pays for it, swiping some gum onto the cashier’s table as well.

His hands are shaking, and it’s damned obvious when he hands her a ten.

“Long class?” asks the girl behind the counter, as she opens the register.

“I – yeah,” Grantaire replies, drumming his fingers against the counter.

He had almost forgotten the niggling urge in his brain. As she hands him his change, he takes out a piece of the gum. It will keep him occupied for at least the next two minutes.

“Thanks,” he adds, hasty, and throws his purchases into his bag.

He’s given up on rushing to a shower immediately after class. The first few weeks of term have been enough to tell him that more than a handful of classes finish around two on Tuesdays, so he heads back now, ten or fifteen minutes after. He’ll have time to rinse off, change into Real Clothes, and make it to art theory. If he’s lucky, he might even skim the first few pages of the reading so that he can pretend he’s functional for when Enjolras will inevitably start an argument with him.

He snorts, imagining Enjolras faced with the _war and peace_ task, as he strips off his sweaty clothes that are now quite cool. His phone, on the bench with his dry clothes, buzzes. Turning on the shower jet, he lets the lukewarm water card through his hair, and nudges the curls out of his eyes. Under the water, he can’t tell how much his hands are still shaking.

He finishes washing, dries, and slips on his shirt before trying to check his phone. The screen is holding out alright, but there’s a spider web of tiny cracks in the bottom left corner from a gutter sometime during summer break.

**Bambi / 2.19pm**

_Hi, you around for coffee or something? I’ve got class at 3._

**sent / 2.22pm**

_I’m about to pass out/grab very late lunch – had dance. Could meet you at Biggs?_

**Bambi / 2.23pm**

_Ahh, I’ve missed their cakes – I can get there by half past?_

**sent / 2.26pm**

_Might be just a fraction later, but yeah alright_

**Bambi / 2.27pm**

_See you when you get here :)_

Between finding his jeans – folded into the bottom corner of his bag – and a bin – to spit out the now-tasteless gum – it takes Grantaire another few minutes to make his way to the Biggs café.

“R, hey, how’s it going?”

He hasn’t physically seen Jehan for a few days, courtesy of their respective timetables.

“I should be asking you,” Grantaire says, his bag slipping from his shoulder to one of the empty chairs.

He sits down as Jehan shrugs.

“Three reports all done. Our mid-sem exam was the last thing for a little while. Weird not actually seeing you, though,” he says.

“I’ll order, what do you want?”

Jehan _um_ s and _ah_ s about orange and poppy seed cake before deciding on chocolate anyway. Grantaire stands to head to the counter, and has to grab the edge of the table to stay upright.

“Shit,” he mumbles, and extracts himself from between table and chair to go order.

The extra few minutes on his feet takes its toll, and he feels worse by the time he gets back to their table. He slumps into his chair, and Jehan frowns.

“Sober,” Grantaire grunts.

His friend nods, and doesn’t say anything else until their food arrives. Grantaire tucks into his grilled cheese with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, stomach clenching. He wants a drink, and no amount of socializing and ignoring it is going to make the feeling (or the shaking) go away.

“Wha’ class d’you have?” Grantaire asks, around a mouthful of mushroom and cheese.

“Government Policy. You?”

Jehan might be in science, but he’s been taking advantage of a few electives to keep up with Feuilly, and now Enjolras, in politics. The rest of them go towards the poetry major Grantaire knows he wants more than anything.

“Ar’ theory.”

“Is that the one Enjolras is taking?”

Grantaire nods, and swallows his mouthful of the sandwich.

“You two get along any better than at ABC?”

“We don’t really talk,” Grantaire lies.

Two weeks ago he had arrived to the tutorial to have Enjolras pass him a sheet covered on both sides with messy-but-legible-and-detailed notes on the previous lecture that he’d missed. They even managed to hold a civil conversation about campus bicycle racks before Lamarque turned up to teach. It had been nice. Last week, with the mustachioed Elizabeth I, had been alright, too.

He and Jehan part ways on the main walkway, and his flatmate takes the stairs two at a time. Grantaire makes it to Centenary at the same time as Enjolras barrels through the door and nearly collides with him.

“Ah, shit, sor – hey,” he says, dropping a folder with a clatter.

“Hey,” Grantaire mutters, not meeting his eyes, and hands it back to him.

They reach the room as the previous class streams out. They file in once the last of them – terrified-looking freshmen girls with anemia, _probably ballet_ , Grantaire thinks – leave, and Enjolras proceeds to empty his messenger bag onto his desk. It’ll be at least another five minutes before Lamarque arrives. Grantaire takes out another piece of gum, and offers the packet to him. Enjolras shakes his head, and rifles through a stack of loose pages, muttering to himself.

“Sorry about last week,” he says eventually.

“Huh?”

“Last week. I was asleep on my feet in class. Thanks again for the notes, by the way.”

Meanwhile Enjolras glances between two sheets of paper, one in each hand, then crumples them into a fist. He shoves them back into his bag.

“There’s a bin just there,” Grantaire says, gesturing to the basket beside the door. “And why the apology?”

“Not recycling,” Enjolras says, like it’s obvious, which it really is.

Grantaire shrugs.

“I was – more of an ass than usual. To you and Joly,” says Enjolras.

He’s looking down at more notes, but Grantaire gets the sense he isn’t really seeing them.

“Apollo, that’s hardly the worst you’ve been,” he tells him, blunt.

They’ve unofficially chosen seats opposite each other, about halfway back in the classroom. Enjolras glares across the aisle at him.

“Hey, I’m not even offended,” Grantaire adds. “I’m just saying – ”

“I’ll refrain from offering apologies hereon in, then,” says Enjolras, cold.

He turns back to the contents of his bag still strewn across the table, and resumes sorting with a vengeance.

When Lamarque arrives, he jots notes viciously on a spare piece of notepaper but doesn’t look up. Grantaire would usually stew in self-hatred for longer, or at least shoot mock-irritable glances at Enjolras, but his stomach has started hitching uncomfortably. He concentrates on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, and has no idea what the professor is saying about portraiture. When class grinds to a halt, he is up and out in the hallway in a matter of seconds, and doesn’t see Enjolras’ face.

After changing back into to tights, he jogs up and down the flight of stairs outside the studio in a pathetic attempt at a warm up. Professor Floreal scolds him for doing it barefoot – _you’ll ruin your ankles in no time, mister_ – and he follows her into class. Stomach still in knots, he only marks the example choreography she leads them through before they split into individual portions of the room to start their work.

“I want between thirty seconds and a minute written out before the end of the hour,” she says. “And if not by the end of class, then in my email inbox by midnight tonight.”

 

<> 

 

Grantaire manages to make it through class and get home before his stomach rebels entirely and he throws up into the bathroom sink. Thankfully neither Jehan nor Feuilly are home yet, so he can clean up properly, disinfect the whole bathroom because honestly it’s probably due to be cleaned by now, and get started on the painful countdown to midnight.

He’s parked on the carpet in front of the battered TV set, head leaning into the formerly-plaid couch cushions, when Jehan gets home soon after half past six. Between sips of water he asks him how Government was in his best attempt at a calm voice, but no cigar.

“Grantaire,” Jehan says, and it’s his full name so he definitely knows something isn’t right.

“Jehan, you’re wonderful, but I really _really_ cannot have a serious conversation right now,” Grantaire gets out in one breath.

Jehan just sits beside him on the floor, passes him the DVDs for _The Italian Job_ and _Howl’s Moving Castle_ , and doesn’t comment when Grantaire’s shaking hands betray him and slop water over the carpet.

“Which one?”

“Howl,” he says, and has to swallow hard. “Nice colors.”

Jehan opens the case and slots the disk into his PS3, then takes the glass and refills it. Grantaire buries his fingers in his hair and tugs hard.

“Here.”

Jehan returns to his spot on the carpet beside him, passes him the water, and presses play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The habour paintings that Grantaire mentions are based on the real ones by Justyna Kopania [which are Beautiful](https://studiounderthemoon.zohosites.com)
> 
> "It's better than an opera" reference - I am So Sorry
> 
> This ended on an overall sadder note than planned/anticipated. Keep reading for slightly happier times?
> 
> \--
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, etc. all appreciated :) ([or you can come say hi on tumblr](http://herringbonefic.tumblr.com))


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Words like that are why I can’t get into ABC stuff,” Grantaire says, once he’s out of earshot.
> 
> Combeferre frowns down at his bloodied gloves, and peels them off his hands.
> 
> “Words like that are why he can’t stay away from it all,” he replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proper actual warning for mild blood, a brief recount of vomit & violence, & for homophobia. We do, however, end with a party, feat. lots of chilli, Batman, Shakespeare, and cheery social drinking.

Grantaire hadn’t agreed to their badly-timed Stand On A Soapbox moment, and makes this wholeheartedly known to them a week beforehand.

“That’s – you realize that’s Halloween, right?”

“Yes, we are aware of the significance of October thirty-first,” Enjolras snaps. “And we didn’t choose the date.”

The college societies have a gala day a few times a year, and for reasons unknown to all of them, it’s scheduled for the end of October. Not only is this Halloween, but prime exam stress time. Grantaire really doesn’t understand why this is the date of choice, as it suits a total of zero college students.

“We’ve just got to work with what we’ve been given,” says Feuilly.

Cosette is taking notes for this particular meeting, because Combeferre is on hospital shift.

“We have a corner of the law courtyard,” she explains to the group at large, “so we should have enough room to spread out a bit.”

“Flyers and the like can go up within the week, right?” Bahorel asks.

“Yep,” Bossuet chimes in. “Joly and Chetta and I are on top of that.”

“Well, if we get the flyers printed in time,” Enjolras grates.

Grantaire pretends to look affronted.

“Are you nearly done?”

Even Eponine looks bright-eyed at the prospect of the meeting, so Grantaire snorts at her question.

“Come on, aren’t you all also drowning in work? Contrary to popular belief, I haven’t dropped out of college yet.”

“I kind of want to prove to Gavroche that the ABC isn’t a waste of my time,” she mutters into his ear, and Grantaire immediately regrets his comment.

“Aside from posters, what else needs to get done?” Jehan asks quickly.

“The writing for said flyers is still being tweaked, but Ferre and I should have that done tonight, after this,” says Courfeyrac.

Jehan nods, and doesn’t say anything for the rest of the meeting. Grantaire makes a mental note to find out why.

“And I’ve done the petition draft in full, and loaded it onto the site, “ Marius is saying, to general approval.

“Great, excellent, we’ll await the artistic resolution of the flyers,” says Enjolras, “and otherwise we’re good to go. We can tie up loose ends on Thursday night and allocate roles.”

Grantaire raises a hand at that.

“Count me out of physical involvement,” he says.

“Why.”

Enjolras’ word is far more of an accusatory statement than a question.

“Er, because I don’t really care? I’m not going to sell Caring About The World, trust me.”

Enjolras looks mutinous, the irony of which makes Grantaire laugh in spite of himself. They don’t speak for the rest of the night, though, and Grantaire drinks far too much at Corinthe afterwards, vomiting twice in the gutter on his way home.

 

<> 

 

It’s spiteful, but Grantaire doesn’t go on the following Monday or Thursday, either, and by the time Friday rolls around he’s almost forgotten about the gala. He briefly considers dropping by the stall to stir the political pot, but then remembers Enjolras’ outright fury, and elects to stay home until his usual six o’clock Musain shift. He contents himself with drawing a metric fucktonne of spider webs over his arms, wrist to elbow, and wearing his shirt with the sleeves rolled. When he arrives at work, Valjean is wearing a traffic cone, also adorned with webs, as a hat.

“Glad we’re on the same page, then,” he says, gruff, nodding to Grantaire as he sidles behind the bar to sign the roster.

“Where’d you even get that?”

Valjean shrugs, stacking glasses beside the espresso machine.

“Renovations at my place last year – I nicked it.”

Grantaire laughs, and hunts around for the least beer-stained of the aprons. Friday is probably his favourite night to work. From six until twelve is the best time to bartend, before any proper chaos can start, and it leaves him plenty of time for his own Corinthe escapades afterwards.

Valjean signs off soon after eight, leaving the place under Grantaire’s duress. Montparnasse isn’t due to take over until half past eleven.

As usual, handfuls of Standard Fratboy Representatives make themselves known (loudly) between nine and eleven. As usual, Grantaire stacks more glasses than he cares to count, and flirts with a handful of girls dragged along by the aforementioned SFRs. As usual, they are jealous, which is entirely the purpose of the exercise.

Unlike usual, Eponine doesn’t drop by (because she had an argument with Montparnasse about college education the other day and she’ll protect Gavroche’s hatred for schooling til her dying day, even if she does like making out with dealers when under the influence). Unlike usual, Grantaire doesn’t sneak mouthfuls of vodka from his own flask from the back room. Admittedly, he has been steadily drinking all day, not just drawing spider webs, and he’s feeling pretty fuzzy. Unlike usual, Grantaire doesn’t see any ABC members before the shift is over; Bahorel is the most common person to drop by on a Friday, on his way out somewhere else, or just to say hi.

Least out of the ordinary, though, is seeing Enjolras.

Montparnasse doesn’t arrive until five to twelve, but at least there’s a lull in customers. Grantaire pretends not to notice, because he doesn’t like the guy (or at least, doesn’t like that Eponine likes the guy), and Montparnasse doesn’t apologise. He makes a mental note to mention his perpertual lateness to Valjean.

Grantaire signs out, grabs his stuff from the back room, and nearly collides with a wilting figure leaning on the wall outside Musain.

“Sorry,” he mutters, stepping to one side.

“Grantaire?”

He blinks. Enjolras hasn’t struck him as the sort of person to dress up for Halloween, but he’s got an impressive handful of fake blood smeared on the left side of his face, temple to jawline. More of it is spattered down onto his shirt, and there’s a rip in the left sleeve, too, exposing another glob of the stuff.

Grantaire is about to comment on the costume – _nice zombie impersonation, man_ – and then bugger off to Corinthe, before registering that Enjolras looks three shades paler than the usual Apollonian marble. In the feeble glow of the streetlamp above, Grantaire’s eyes adjust, and _oh god_ that isn’t fake blood and the heels of Enjolras’ palms look like they’ve had a run in with a cheese grater and that’s definitely one of his nice shirts. This is not a Halloween costume.

“Fuck, what happened?”

Enjolras is definitely shaking, and definitely doing the thing where he’s pretending there isn’t blood running down the side of his face.

“Grantaire,” he says again, instead of answering the question.

“Shit, I, this is so not my area of expertise but there’s a medical kit behind the bar,” Grantaire babbles. “Come inside? It’s only Montparnasse working, it’ll be – ”

Enjolras, who hasn’t moved, closes his eyes for a second, and slides down the wall to the ground.

“Fuck,” Grantaire breathes, and crouches beside him, a hand tentatively hovering over his unbloodied shoulder. “Enjolras, if you could say literally anything right now that would be excellent.”

“If you could,” Enjolras mumbles, eyes now half open, “call Ferre?”

Med student. Smart, even with possible concussion. Grantaire feels like an idiot, like he should have been the one to suggest it. He takes his hand away from Enjolras’ shoulder, swallowing.

“Right, yeah, do you want to..?”

He unlocks his phone, finds Combeferre’s number, and passes it over. Enjolras holds it gingerly to the uninjured side of his face, eyes unfocused.

Grantaire digs through his bag, looking for the t-shirt he knows is _in here somewhere_.

“Ah, hey,” Enjolras’ voice says. “This is Enjolras. Long story short, R and I are at Musain. I think I’ve got concussion, and – ”

He breaks off as Combeferre presumably starts talking. Grantaire can hear what sounds like rough static coming from the speakers.

“Not a real drama, I just – “

More silence, more static. Grantaire bundles up the grey shirt in his hands and passes it to Enjolras, gesturing to the side of his own head as if to demonstrate. Enjolras isn’t looking at him properly, still staring somewhat vacantly at the streetlight, phone pressed to his ear.

“Ferre, this really isn’t a conversation to have on the phone,” he says, and his voice cracks slightly, and only now does it occur to Grantaire that splitting your skull open hurts.

More static, Enjolras frowns.

“Yeah. Okay. Five? Sure. Thank you,” he adds, quiet, right at the end, and hangs up.

“My flimsy medical knowledge tells me you should staunch that,” Grantaire can’t help himself from babbling, taking the phone back. “But also, seriously, what the _fuck_.”

Enjolras raises his now-free hand to his temple and winces, as if he hasn’t quite realized the extent of the blood. His hand comes away red, and, realizing this, he pulls a face.

“I got shoved into a wall. Perpetrators also relieved me of my phone. Was going to come into Musain, thought you worked Fridays, or at least I could use the phone.” _Inhale. Exhale_. “Got dizzy, had to stop for a bit.”

He’s breathing too quickly, and Grantaire is only feeling more and more incapable by the second.

“Okay, no, look, I’m not sober and not much use to you at all but – _fuck_ – look, I’ll be back in thirty seconds – ”

He thinks maybe he can duck back inside and grab the first aid kit.

“Ferre’ll be here in five, anyway” Enjolras interrupts, wincing as he holds Grantaire’s shirt to his face.

Now that he’s on the ground, Enjolras actually looks considerably more put together than Grantaire feels. This is decidedly unfair. Grantaire feels like he’s going to vomit. He frowns down at his hands, crush be damned to the seventh circle of hell, then looks Enjolras in the eyes.

“Sitting on the ground is no use. Even if Ferre gets here he won’t be able to see a damn thing out here. Can you stand?”

The streetlight isn’t doing a good enough job for Grantaire to even tell if there’s fresh blood on his crumpled shirt, or if it’s dried. Enjolras shrugs slightly, still breathing hard, and tries to lever himself upright against the wall with his free hand.

Grantaire reaches out to steady him and is thankful to every deity he can name – a lot, given that he had a running competition with Joly last year to see who could name the most ancient gods – that Enjolras just sort of leans into him and doesn’t comment.

“You can come in the back, it’s just Montparnasse, won’t matter.”

He keeps up a stream of chatter, the details of which he won’t recall later, one hand hooked under Enjolras’ unsteady elbow. They make it inside and past the handful of customers still haunting Musain. Friday is the least busy of the college drinking nights, for which Grantaire is now eternally grateful.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Enjolras mutters, as Montparnasse looks up from wiping glasses and has the grace to look mildly surprised rather than horrified.

“Just in here,” Grantaire tells him, and tugs him gently through the doorway into the room behind the bar.

Enjolras sinks onto one of the empty packing crates as soon as the door swings shut. In the much-brighter fluorescence of the shitty light globe overhead, his face looks almost grey, and Grantaire’s brief sense of control dissipates.

He’s managed to locate a glass of water for Enjolras – and the bleeding seems to have slowed – by the time Combeferre arrives, tight-lipped.

“What the fuck,” is the first thing he says, and Grantaire snorts as he hands over the first aid kit.

Enjolras, daubing blood from the side of his face, looks nauseous and unrepentant, and says nothing. Combeferre sighs, and starts rattling off interrogatives.

“How long ago was it?”

“Twenty minutes, or maybe half an hour.”

“Given that you know both of us,” Combeferre mutters, “I assume you know your own name?”

“Fuck you, Ferre, it’s Enjolras.”

“Dizziness?”

A nod and a wince. Combeferre fusses through the first aid kit as he keeps talking.

“Nausea?”

“A bit.” A pause. “Threw up right afterwards, fine now.”

Grantaire’s stomach twinges in sympathy.

“Other than pain, any other symptoms?” Combeferre presses.

Enjolras shakes his head, his free hand tightening on the edge of the packing case.

“Okay, okay. What happened?”

Combeferre pulls on gloves and, batting away Enjolras’ hand and the stained shirt, swabs at his hairline with disinfectant. Grantaire can see, between the dried blood and his hairline, a sizable gash.

“I was, _shit_ , – ”

Enjolras halts and curses, face drawn tight in pain. Combeferre apologises, still wiping the cut.

“I was recognized from this afternoon, I think.”

He reaches for his glass of water and gulps down half of it. Grantaire racks his brains for what he would have been doing in the afternoon, and remembers the gala. He had finally finished the sketches for the flyers and emailed them to Eponine late last week: several hands linked, “A, B, C” superimposed over the top, white on red. According to his drunken email signature, he had told her to forward them to the rest of, direct quote, _the alphabet bros_. Grantaire doesn’t remember actually sending the message.

“Right, and?” Combeferre asks.

“Didn’t take too nicely to the marriage equality and the like that we were, ah, _spouting like all the rest of those radical gay fuckers_ , if I recall their words correctly,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire is suddenly aware that he used to have trouble reading Combeferre’s expressions. His vitiligo meant that the usual nuances – shifts around the eyes and on cheeks – were lost on anyone relying on colors and shadows of expression. At Enjolras’ words, though, Combeferre’s cheeks flush, blotchy and uneven and furious.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he repeats.

“ – so they decided that pulling me off my bike and into a wall was the solution.”

Enjolras is still talking, his cheeks regaining color, but his voice is much softer. Though it’s steady, Grantaire would say he sounded afraid, except that he’s proven his indomitability so often that he’s not sure Enjolras has ever felt fear.

“Is there a bathroom back here?”

“Second on your right,” Grantaire manages, gesturing past the rest of the packing cases.

He has sunk down onto one of them himself, feeling shaky.

“If you’re steady enough, you can go rinse the rest of the blood off yourself,” Combeferre tells Enjolras.

Enjolras pulls himself upright on Combeferre’s shoulder and, insisting he’s fine, heads to the bathroom.

“Words like that are why I can’t get into ABC stuff,” Grantaire says, once he’s out of earshot.

Combeferre frowns down at his bloodied gloves, and peels them off his hands.

“Words like that are why he can’t stay away from it all,” he replies.

“Sorry I couldn’t help, I – ”

“Don’t be an idiot, Grantaire. If nothing else, I don’t have a full medical kit in my car at the moment, so you actually did.”

He is aware that he is only half present in the conversation. The other half of his brain is just _radical gay fuckers_ on loop combined with wondering just how shitty people can be to each other.

“Back in a minute,” Combeferre says, as Enjolras returns, “and I’ll cover that with something.”

He nods at the weeping cut on his friend’s face and sweeps past him, presumably to wash the traces of blood off his own hands. Grantaire continues feeling useless, until Enjolras speaks again.

“Did you know that eighty, or something like that, _eighty percent_ of LGBT students report harassment at school. Only continues once they’re in college, or whatever. I can’t remember the statistics, but it’s just – ”

Enjolras breaks off.

“Er,” says Grantaire, because what else is he meant to say.

Enjolras frowns down at his vacant seat, still standing, and says nothing. His left sleeve is sodden where he’s tried to wash out the blood from the frayed fabric. Grantaire isn’t sure if this is personal, or if this is Enjolras Caring About Everything. Given his track record, it could be either, or both.

“People are awful,” he offers, when after several seconds Enjolras doesn’t seem likely to contribute further.

He appears to be content with eyeballing the packing case without further commentary, until Combeferre returns and snaps on a fresh pair of gloves.

“Sit,” he says, gentle, and steers Enjolras back onto his seat.

He repeats the questions from before and hands him painkillers. Enjolras gulps them down with the last of the water and Grantaire pointedly doesn’t watch.

“How was your night, Grantaire?” Ferre asks, returning to the medical kit.

“Er,” Grantaire says again.

It would seem that Combeferre has mastered the general practitioner’s Knack For Mindless Conversation.

“Hold that there for a sec,” he tells Enjolras, pressing a square of gauze over the cut, then, back at Grantaire. “Just work?”

“Yeah,” he says.

He needs a drink now far more than he did immediately after work. He fidgets with his hands. Combeferre battles briefly with a thin piece of medical tape.

“There,” he says eventually.

Enjolras removes his hand gingerly from the gauze, where it stays put, held by a few strips of the tape.

“How’s the dizziness?”

“So-so,” Enjolras says.

“Look up at me for a sec,” Combeferre says.

He shines a pin light into each of Enjolras’ eyes, asks him the questions a third time, and engages Grantaire in at least another minute of painful conversation – all while dressing the torn skin on his friend’s hands – before packing away. When they make their way out of the back room, Montparnasse only nods at them before turning back to the girl he’s serving.

“Bike’s just back there,” says Enjolras, once they’re outside, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards the intersection.

“Leave it, I’ll drop you home,” Combeferre says, just in time for Enjolras to sway on his feet.

Grantaire feels a hand clamp onto his shoulder.

“Fuck,” Enjolras manages. “Sorry.”

He stays upright, but Combeferre frowns at him under the streetlamp.

“I’ve got half a mind to drop by the clinic – ”

“Don’t.”

A sigh.

“I parked just along here,” Combeferre says, hooking his arm through his friend’s. “Grantaire, d’you want me to drive you home, too?”

He shakes his head. He is painfully aware of the space where Enjolras’ hand used to be.

“Corinthe,” he tells them, by way of explanation, and flees.

 

<> 

 

A few shots in – he’s hazy on the exact number – Grantaire is joined by Eponine, who he’d called on his way to the dingy bar.

“You alright?”

“Fine, fine, want to join me at Corinthe?”

“Ugh. Convince me.”

“Enjolras got slammed into a wall and came via Musain covered in blood?”

Just static, like she’s exhaling.

“You coming?” When she doesn’t respond.

“Give me ten minutes,” she says.

As it turns out, Bossuet is already there, and Eponine drags him up to Grantaire’s stretch of the bar.

“Want one?” Bossuet asks them both, holding up the last of his beer meaningfully.

They nod, he orders, and they relocate to a cosier corner as Corinthe keeps filling. Eponine is in all black, and Bossuet is wearing an inexplicably sequined waistcoat over his shirt and dress pants. He appears to have come straight from work.

“You know how in Mac- the Scottish play, they say the witches have beards?”

“The weird sisters, hand in hand,” Eponine intones.

Grantaire grins at Bossuet, who is now staring across the crowded bar, and saying, “ _We’re_ the weird sisters, Halloween-style.”

“Can I get whatever you’ve been drinking?” Grantaire asks, elbowing him in the ribs.

“Probably the joint, not the drink,” Bossuet tells him, and quaffs most of his new pint.

“Any left over?” Eponine asks.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. Sure, the two of them have been high more times than he can count, but he happens to know that she’s trying to stop smoking, nicotine and weed alike. Bossuet just shrugs.

“Sure, if you want, later.”

“So, spill,” Eponine demands, turning to Grantaire.

He is pleased that they, too, can only react like he and Combeferre did. _What the fuck?_ Eponine looks furious, and Bossuet grim.

“Okay, for one thing, I don’t know which way Enjolras swings, but he shouldn’t have to deal with it either way.”

Eponine nods, frowning.

“People are just so – ”

“Awful?” Eponine supplies.

Grantaire downs his beer.

“I wish it had been me,” Bossuet says, murderous.

“No, you don’t. What would you have said to Joly and Chetta to explain yourself?”

He pulls a face at Eponine.

“Fair, but still. It’s bad enough that _we_ have this shit happening, but it doesn’t even concern him right now.”

“Well, it might,” Eponine says, casting a glance so fleeting at Grantaire that he’s not sure if he imagines it.

“Did he say if he recognized them, or anything?”

Grantaire shakes his head as she turns to look at him properly.

“All he said was what I already told you, and then rattled off a whole lot of statistics about LGBT discrim-discrimination while Ferre was cleaning the blood off his face.”

Bossuet giggles as Grantaire slurs his words. The last few drinks have gotten to him, and Bossuet’s joint seems to have recently granted him the ability to be literally incapable of not laughing.

“There’s got to be a way to find out,” says Eponine.

Bossuet tries and fails to swallow down a snigger.

“Sorry,” he manages. “We can ask Enjolras about it next week.”

“I guess,” Grantaire says.

 

<> 

 

In choreography, Floreal is subjecting them to steadily more irritating rules about notating their steps and not relying on film material.

“Dance notation is extraordinarily important,” she urges. “It’s international, for goodness’ sake, so it’s useful in that sense. Besides, you’ve got to teach your work for the final performance anyway, and all the dance students here can read it.”

Grantaire mutters something about self-directed learning under his breath, and she rounds on him later, when they’ve dispersed to work solo.

“It’s very valuable, Grantaire, and I won’t have students rejecting the notation process. Aren’t you looking to be involved in theater work?”

He half shrugs, frowning at the notes he’s taken in his green notebook. His handwriting has been worse, but it isn’t the best on this particular page. (Unsurprising, given that he did his most recent bout of dance homework under the influence of alcohol and Other Things.)

“Not really sure yet, “ he says.

She sighs.

“Can I read your most recent work?”

“Er…can I show it instead?”

“Only if you get it to me in notation as well.”

He shrugs, figuring that it’s as a good a deal as he’ll get, and demonstrates the sequence of footwork he’s managed to cobble together for about halfway through his _war and peace_ nightmare. Thankfully, she seems satisfied, or at least reluctant to actively criticize him.

Hours later, he opens his laptop to an email signed _Floreal, a été envoyé à partir de mon iPhone_ :

       Grantaire,

       Looking forward to your end product in notation. – F

He actually bothers to scrawl a version of the _bourré_ and _batterie_ on the next page of the notebook, takes a quick picture on his phone, and sends it as an attachment. His email _pings_ a few minutes later.

       Great. Looking forward to **reading** your newest portion next week. – F

He scowls, and jots down some extra ideas beside the little figurines.

The project has been giving him no minor grief. He would blame it on the way his left knee keeps twingeing at odd moments, except that it’s entirely his own laziness, not an impending injury, causing his lack of progress.

“One of these days,” he announces to the kitchen, “I will get it together.”

“Today is not that day?” asks Jehan, from his laptop nook.

“Tomorrow doesn’t look so good either.”

Having abandoned the choreography notes on his bed, Grantaire paces the linoleum, waiting for the kettle to boil.

“R, if you’re not busy, could you quiz me on this?”

He learns far more about the inner workings of a rat liver than he ever needed to know before Feuilly gets home.

 

<> 

 

Grantaire is paying even less attention than usual to the subject matter of tonight’s meeting. He fills the last gap in the margins of an ABC flyer with biro sketches of a spaceship and, with difficulty, forces himself to do anything but frown at the cut that’s yet to heal on Enjolras’ face. Joly has been brave enough to bring up his own agenda this meeting, talking about special considerations and accessibility while nursing his knee. Grantaire has wrapped ice cubes in a tea towel from behind the bar, which Joly now holds gingerly with one hand, the other gripping the handle of his cane.

“Like the Centenary building,” Bossuet says, as Joly stammers through the inaccessibility of half the college campus.

“Centenary?”

“Art and languages,” Eponine tells Enjolras, who looks briefly confused.

“Long live creativity,” Grantaire says, grave, and toasts to the group at large with his nearly-empty _n_ th beer. “We literally have class there, Enjolras.”

Enjolras ignores him.

“Well, you’ll want the administrative and student welfare groups, then?”

Joly nods at Feuilly’s suggestion.

“But without the pity party. This isn’t about me.”

Bossuet looks somewhat lovestruck, but Musichetta slaps their boyfriend lightly on his uninjured knee.

“We don’t want you slipping on any more stairways, love.”

“How should we write it, then?” Courfeyrac asks, pen poised. “Selfless Student Just Wants Everyone To Be Able To Attend Their Damn Classes?”

Joly sweeps his cane narrowly past Combeferre’s ear and jabs Courfeyrac in the side. Grantaire watches Jehan watch Courfeyrac double over, somewhere between a wince and a laugh.

“Watch it,” grumbles Combeferre, and earns a prod in the cheek.

“How difficult can it be, though? There are lifts in a decent number of the newer buildings anyway. There would only need to be, what – ”

“Four,” Joly says, finishing Cosette’s train of thought. “Biggs has a walkway through to the Biomed corridor, so it’s only the others that need major changes.”

“Won’t be cheap, to convert sixties buildings, though,” says Marius.

“But not out of the question. Besides, all they need is one beneficiary to care enough to make a major donation.”

Enjolras is only half speaking to the group, peering over Courfeyrac’s shoulder at his notes.

“Well, we’d better find that someone who cares enough. Oh, wait, Enjolras, all of you are already here.”

Grantaire shouldn’t be surprised that he doesn’t rise to the bait straight away.

“What did – no, wait, don’t bother,” Enjolras grits out, syllables clipped, and turns back to the group at large. “There’s got to be a donations or scholarships group we can go through for funding.”

“Wait, no, I don’t think you heard me. Enjolras, _nobody cares_.”

He is faintly aware of the sensible fraction of his brain telling him to shut up, but the rest of his mind is way past listening.

“ABC cares,” Bahorel interjects, possibly sensing the argument, or possibly not. (It’s always hard to tell with Bahorel.)

“That’s my point,” he shoots back, rolling his eyes and looking back at Enjolras.

“Unfortunately, Grantaire, that’s the entire point of these meetings. Caring. Can we interest you in joining in?”

Enjolras is brilliant and terrible and Grantaire regrets everything that brought him to this moment.

Except that he doesn’t. He doesn’t, because too much of a good thing is a lie, because it’s Enjolras, because even if he himself is reduced to nothing in the process it’s worth the ride.

“I’ll pass,” says Grantaire, feeling his lip curl. “Better to save my soulless apathy for someone who cares. Oh. Wait.”

“God’s _sake_ , R, so you don’t care about Joly?”

Grantaire shakes his head, hazy.

“Love him to bits. You’re missing the point, Apollo.”

“Cut it out with the mythology – ”

“Joly, you’re the be-est,” he says, singsong, over Enjolras.

“What point am I missing, then?”

“Fuck, Apollo, for a lawyer-to-be you’ve got a long way to go – ”

“ _Grantaire_.”

He takes a moment to appreciate that Enjolras is frozen in more than a passing impersonation of a European royal portrait, circa eighteenth century. Gold curls. Imperious. Dark jacket hanging loose against a cream shirt. Grantaire’s mind’s eye can tweak it to velvet and bullion and damask easily enough. The scab still on his left temple ruins the effect, though.

“The point you’re missing? I’ve been telling you since day dot. There _isn’t_ a point. ”

Enjolras stares him down.

“Hobbes’ point, if you will, Apollo,” he adds, grinning down at the last of his beer.

Baiting him has become so much a part of the meetings that Grantaire routinely forgets Enjolras actually hates him, that he isn’t in it for the thrill of the debate, or whatever.

“Maybe keep your fucking pessimism to yourself.”

 

<> 

 

Bossuet’s party is scheduled right after the major assignment block but before the finals and take home exam chaos is due to begin.

Grantaire cups water in his hands and splashes his face, drenching his unbuttoned left sleeve in the process. Some last minute paperwork filled out in a panic-induced frenzy means he’s got an extra week on his last two essays, but he feels like he’s swallowed a bucket of frogs. He swapped shifts with Montparnasse at Bossuet’s insistence that he come, but he’s regretting his past optimism about study habits and Getting It Together.

“You guys ready?” Feuilly calls from the kitchen.

“Remind me why we’re going early?” asks Jehan through a yawn.

“Trashy pre-party music and decorations, come on, can you imagine Bossuet trying to do them by himself?”

“Fuck,” Grantaire mutters as, weight shifting to peer at his face in the toothpaste-flecked mirror, he feels his left knee pop.

Ignoring it, he frowns at his crooked reflection, trying to render it symmetrical in his mind’s eye, to minimal effect. His lips sit at a jagged eighty degrees, the right side dropping almost comically unless he smiles permanently or bites the inside of his cheek to even them out. He mentally offers up a mocking prayer of thanks for his mom’s smoking habit while unknowingly pregnant with him. With a right hand slightly larger than his left, too, he is inarguably ugly.

“Come on, Quasimodo,” he says under his breath, and dries his face on a hand towel.

“You’d better not fall asleep,” he hears Feuilly saying.

“I won’t, I won’t!”

 _Thwack_. Probably a couch cushion being swung at Jehan. Hysterical laughter.

“Alright, sunshines, let’s get going,” Grantaire says, striding from the bathroom and past them to slip on his shoes.

(Bossuet may have insisted on more alcohol than sensible by even Grantaire’s standards, and compulsory dancing, but he’s got more taste than he gets credit for. This manifests in different ways, but this time it’s the request that everyone wear something Nice. Jehan has interpreted this in a way only he could, in a navy shirt, black suit, and matched his _orange_ pocket square with his socks. Feuilly, in a checkered button-up and dark jeans, is apparently equal parts horrified and impressed by this, and keeps muttering _orange_ under his breath.)

Grantaire pulls his phone from his pocket just as Feuilly has an existential crisis choosing between Docs and oxfords.

**Hugo Boss / 4.49pm**

_Eta?_

  **sent / 4.51pm**

_We’ll be on our way as soon as Frilly and Jehan tie their damn shoelaces_

He fidgets with the button at his left wrist, which seems to be coming undone for the third time. The thread is loose. His messenger bag is slumped against the doorway, as energetic as he feels. He crams his hands into his hoodie pockets, pulls them out, picks at the button again, prods at his phone screen. The night cannot begin quickly enough. He thinks longingly of the bottles nestled in the bag.

“Get a jacket, dumbass,” Jehan tells Feuilly, who swears and dashes briefly back into his room.

“Alright, shall we?”

It takes twenty minutes to walk from their flat to Bossuet’s place. It takes the three of them closer to forty, because it’s windy, and they have to double back to pick up scarves and gloves. Jehan is also physically incapable of taking a direct route anywhere. Around the corner from the house, Grantaire’s phone rings, and he waves his friends off, slowing on the sidewalk.

“Hey,” he says, ignoring the familiar swoop of his stomach that comes with answering a call.

“R, honey, is this a good time?”

He shrugs even though she can’t see.

“It’s fine, mom. I’m about to go out but I can talk for a bit.”

“Well, if you’re sure – ”

“Yeah, yeah. How’s home?”

She runs through a list of things that have been happening: the cat pissing on a new rug, new neighbors, changes at the school where she works. He’s only half listening, but he’s enjoying it, the wind tugging at his fingers gripping his phone, the sing-song in his left ear reminding him of childhood bedtime stories where he could hear her voice but wasn’t awake enough to listen to the story.

“Enough about all of that, though. How are classes?”

He pulls a face.

“They’re alright,” he says. “Busy, but just having the two is going well.”

“You’re still working at that bar, too, aren’t you?”

Grantaire is perhaps too aware of his blessings. His parents, distant though his relationship with them might be, have been able to afford housing for him, along with a bit extra for food and the like. _He’s_ only working at Musain to make his drinking habits possible, not his livelihood.

Feuilly is only studying because he scraped a scholarship as well as balancing two jobs. Jehan is going to finish college with a biology major and terrifying debt.

“Yep.”

“And how are you – ” she pauses, and he can almost hear her trying to find a diplomatic way to ask.

“Things are all alright. Just busy.”

His throat and eyes are warm, now, and he squints at the sidewalk between his feet.

“And your flatmates are still good to live with? Who was it, John? Jean?”

“Jehan. And Feuilly. I knew them from last year anyway.”

“And everything’s alright?”

He grunts. She sighs a lungful of static into the phone.

“Hm, alright. I’m sure your father sends his love as always, by the way.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire bites his lip, forces half a smile, doesn’t blink. “Love you both.”

“Alright, honey, talk soon. Bye.”

He waits for her to hang up, the _beep_ of the dial tone shrill against in his ear.

Jehan and Feuilly have walked the last fifty meters and disappeared through Bossuet’s front door, dark against the white railings of the porch. The whole front of the house is still sporting wreaths of fake spiders and webs from last month. He can hear music from the street. If it weren’t for the drinks in his bag, Grantaire would turn around and go back home now.

Instead, he follows his now-absent friends, crams his phone into his jeans pocket and takes the steps up the porch at a run, ignoring his protesting left knee.

“R, I thought you’d be right behind these guys!”

“Sorry, mom called,” he says, and holds up his bag meaningfully. “Where do you want all of this?”

Bossuet grins and slugs him in the shoulder.

“Come on through,” he tells him, and Grantaire follows.

Bossuet’s share house is chaotic but somehow homely. There’s music thumping from the speakers in the front room, hooked up to someone’s iPhone, and there’s the expected clutter of four college students in one house, but Grantaire has always felt it had more to it. Maybe it’s just Bossuet’s charm. Musichetta certainly thinks so. She’s already here, along with Joly, pouring drinks, chatting, complaining about the mess.

 

<> 

 

“’y so ser’yious?” Feuilly asks around a fork clenched long-ways between his teeth.

The handle is red, but it doesn’t really make him look anything like Heath Ledger.

“Fuck you, Frilly, I am a sweet summer child, thanks very much,” Grantaire says drily, toasting his whiskey in Feuilly’s general direction.

Feuilly takes in Grantaire’s dark jeans, grey jacket, green shirt – still trailing thread from the loose left cuff – and beverage of choice, and snorts. The fork drops into his glass, spraying soda across Bahorel’s lap beside him on the couch.

“I sit down for _three seconds_ , ” he protests.

“Sweet – summer – child,” Grantaire repeats, impressed that he doesn’t slur.

“If anyone here is sweet, it’s – Cosette, Marius!”

“Cosette probably _is_ the sweet one,” says Bahorel, thoughtful, as Feuilly darts across the room to greet the newcomers.

Marius shakes Feuilly’s hand and beckons for Cosette to follow him into the kitchen.

“When’d you get here?” Grantaire asks Bahorel.

“About thirty seconds ago. I drove Eponine and Courf here, so they’re starting on dinner.”  
“Ep, cooking?”

Eponine isn’t known for her interest in the culinary arts. Bahorel grins.

“They’re making crêpes.”

 _Translation_ , Grantaire thinks. _Courfeyrac is making crêpes. Eponine is making condiments so spicy they’ll all want to cry_.

“Better tell Marius to make her hold off on chillis,” he says.

“Even _Cosette_ could manage that curry,” says Bahorel, fond.

Right before summer, Courfeyrac, Eponine, and Musichetta had made the largest saucepan-full of curry for their End Of Exams celebration. Marius had gone very red in the face trying to impress Cosette. To Eponine’s defence, her long-term crush had finally asked _his_ long-term crush out, and called her immediately afterwards to gush about it. Marius’ face had been worth it. Eponine’s harsh sobbing had been awful.

Grantaire doesn’t _have_ to be anywhere until the Musain for work tomorrow evening. He swirls the whiskey in his glass and lets the chatter around him drown out thinking for a while. There’s a buzzing under his skin. He ignores it while he can.

“Get your asses out here,” Eponine calls.

He hears Combeferre and Enjolras arrive as the rest of them dole out food and refill glasses. Marius is spluttering around his first mouthful of food.

“Alright, you two?” Bossuet asks, passing them paper plates.

“Long day, nice to finally get here,” Combeferre says, rubbing at his eyes.

“Who made all this?” asks Enjolras.

Grantaire gulps down half of his drink to hide his reaction. Enjolras’ entire wardrobe probably fits nicely into Bossuet’s demand for Wearing Something Nice, but it’s different seeing him in a button down and chinos that aren’t weary around the edges from a day in class. It’s also somehow more elegant than even his workplace shirts and ties. He also looks bemused, and Grantaire tells himself that it isn’t cute. Not at all. He pours himself another drink.

“Sorry, could you – ?”

Enjolras slides a glass onto the bench between them, glancing sideways at him.

“Uh. Whiskey?” Grantaire says to the dark label on the bottle, rather than making eye contact.

“I really couldn’t care less.”

He splashes an approximation of a shot into the glass, and Enjolras fills the rest of it with cola before taking a sip.

“Can’t taste it at all. Do you mind?”

Grantaire shakes his head and busies himself with tzatziki as Enjolras takes the bottle from him. Their fingers don’t brush. This most definitely isn’t disappointing.

“Cheers,” Enjolras mutters, and puts the bottle back on the bench.

He’s walked away before Grantaire has a chance to reply. With what? He’s not sure. He fills his plate, piling spoonfuls of this and that around the edge of the crêpe covering the flimsy cardboard.

The food has the unfortunately effect of dulling at least half of the Daniels he’s already swigged, so Grantaire makes it his mission to empty the bottle and start on something else. Eponine joins him in silence, the rest of their friends draped over the mismatched chairs, or sitting on the mottled rug, as they make their way through seconds and thirds of the meal.

“Reckon he realized at any point?” Grantaire finds himself asking.

Eponine raises an eyebrow, and swipes the last spoonful of sour cream off his plate to add to hers.

“Your _best buddy_. Did he know?”

“Nope,” she says, and splits the last of the whiskey between her glass and his. “Marius is far too oblivious and happy, now, anyway.”

“Oi, R, which speech was it that you used to say all the time?”

Jehan, bless him, is pink in the face. The reason is most probably twofold, given the proximity of both alcohol and Courfeyrac to the couch where he’s sitting.

“Speech?” asks Grantaire, innocent, though he knows exactly what is being requested.

“Something about winter? The Shakespeare one.”

“Glorious summer, sun of York, all that jazz,” he answers, pasting on a shit-eating grin.

Jehan looks far too pleased at Grantaire’s sudden remembering.

“Do – not – ” Feuilly says, stern, from his place on the floor between Bahorel and Joly’s shins.

Courfeyrac shakes his head, clapping a hand on Jehan’s shoulder. The latter might squeak, but Grantaire can’t be sure.

“You know it by heart?” Courfeyrac directs at Grantaire, who shrugs and quaffs the rest of his glass.

“He _does_ ,” insists Jehan.

“I’m getting another drink,” Feuilly groans, standing.

He is briefly bombarded by _thanks!_ from the rest of the group, and goes to find fresh beers.

In the far corner, Cosette is engrossed in what appears to be a Serious Conversation. This is mainly evident from the fact that she’s flanked by Combeferre and Enjolras, but she also looks characteristically somber.

“ – but the laws seem to have shifted,” Grantaire can hear her saying.

Marius pats her knee awkwardly from where he’s sitting at her feet and picking at his food.

“That’s part of the whole purpose, I imagine,” Enjolras says, frown in place. “Keep shifting things around and no one can keep up, never mind applying.”

“I’m happy to read through the most recent version,” adds Combeferre, voice low.

“R, hey, _hey_ – ”

He’s brought back to the conversation at hand, and Feuilly is thoroughly annoyed that he’s back from the kitchen in time for Courfeyrac say:

“You’re not even in drama, you’ve _got_ to!”

Grantaire makes it through the lines to somewhere around _unable to prove a lover_ before his voice catches and he takes his chance to plead forgetfulness. He gets a ragged cheer from the listeners-in, and pretends that The Stare – Enjolras’ lips are still pressed together, across the room – wasn’t a factor in his supposed memory loss.

Eponine passes Grantaire another beer, wordless, but raises her eyebrows slightly. _You alright?_ He half-shrugs and takes the bottle anyway.

“Still too cool, R, far too cool,” says Bossuet, exhuberant, clinking his glass against Grantaire’s drink.

Memorizing speeches had been the only thing keeping him together in theater with the others back in first year. He’d mostly been too drunk to show any aptitude in assessments, but their professor had guaranteed an extra 10% for speeches of thirty lines or more in verse.

“My turn,” Courfeyrac says, grinning, and launches into the porter’s soliloquy.

Jehan blushes furiously at the penis jokes. He also stoutly denies it when he and Feuilly have to frog-march Grantaire home four hours later and put him to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were several implicative conversations left unresolved - stay tuned for clarifications in later chapters!
> 
> When I say 'the porter's soliloquy', I mean [this scene](http://www.shakespeare-navigators.com/macbeth/T23.html)
> 
> I'm hoping to publish the next two chapters before Christmas.
> 
> Comments/kudos/feedback encouraged & appreciated :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cochlear implant technology,” Feuilly says, and cracks a grin. “I hear it’s just not what it used to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for more of the direct alcoholism & anxiety stuff. Also implied cold family relationships, minor injury, migraines, and study stress. But also inconvenient postage prices and festive planning!

It’s not that they aren’t friends, but they aren’t friends.

Grantaire arrives back at the flat on the first of the month, duffel slung over his shoulder with some difficulty. Snow is dusting his shoulders and hair, sticking to his nose and hands as he fumbles with his keycard. It takes him a second to notice the hand tapping his shoulder.

“Grantaire?”

He whips around to face Enjolras, nearly slamming the door shut on his fingers. In the week since Grantaire went home for Thanksgiving, the temperature has dropped, and Enjolras is accordingly buttoned into a proper coat. His gold hair is striking against the dark collar. Grantaire looks down at his hands.

“Uh, hi,” he says.

“I was just – dropping in to see, to see Jehan, here, let me – ”

Enjolras reaches past him and steadies the door. Their hands brush.

“Feuilly said you went home for, for Thanksgiving?” he continues, letting Grantaire duck past him into the foyer, out of the snow.

He lets his bag slip from his shoulder onto the floor, and tucks the keycard into his pocket, still not looking at Enjolras. He can’t help but notice the stutter.

“Yeah. Come on, it’s cold,” Grantaire tells him. “We’re on level two.”

They make their way up the stairwell single file. Grantaire risks a glance back, but Enjolras is watching his feet and doesn’t notice.

“How, how was it? Seeing family?”

Enjolras is being polite, it would seem, as Grantaire digs out the keycard again and jams it into the sensor. He grunts, and pushes the door open. His hands are shaky.

“I – sorry, family stuff not so good, or – ”

He is still more stutter than clarity and in the warm room it seems out of place.

“What?” Grantaire asks, only half listening. “Oh. No, no, it was fine.”

He doesn’t bother explaining that he had his first and last meaningful conversation with his parents when he was about fifteen.

“Enjolras! Oh, Grantaire, you’re back – I didn’t know what time you’d get in. Sit down, sit down,” Feuilly adds, as they shrug out of their coats.

“Sorry to bother you,” says Enjolras, frowning.

There are booklets and graphs and, inexplicably, stacks upon stacks of what looks like butchers paper, strewn across the coffee table and more than half of the carpeted lounge area. Feuilly shakes his head, smiling, and strides across to the nook in the corner.

“Jehan? Jehan. _Prouvaire_ ,” he half-yells, finally, and tugs at a pair of bulky headphones over their roommate’s ears.

Jehan wheels into view on his computer chair, wincing and protesting.

“I’ve got to finish this before we eat, Feuilly, for God’s sa – ”

He stops at the sight of them in his living room, blinks, and runs his fingers through his hair, the headphones lost to Feuilly.

“Fuck,” Jehan breathes. “It’s Monday, isn’t it?”

“Hey, aren’t you normally in an office doing real life things?” Grantaire finds himself asking.

Enjolras laughs, and Grantaire holds his breath. Is it creepy that he knows this? Almost definitely.

“Normally. They’ve closed til new year, though,” Enjolras explains, dropping into a space on their ghastly couch between what Grantaire can only assume are Feuilly’s readings.

“I am so out of it,” Jehan mutters, and frowns back at his desk before facing them again. “Enjolras, can you give me another ten minutes to finish this? I’ll be in better state to talk posters if this is done first.”

Enjolras waves a hand at his, a clear _no problem_ , his eyes trained on his other hand picking up the textbook at his feet: _Patterns in Democracy_. He opens it to the index, frowns, and flicks to chapter six.

Grantaire kicks off his shoes and heads into his room. He tosses coat, scarf, and socks onto the still-unmade bed from ass o’clock, Wednesday morning, and dives for his bedside table. His duffel is by the door, blocking the way back to the couch. Most of the flask is empty in a few gulps, whiskey sloshing in his empty stomach and briefly threatening to come back up straight away.

He swallows down the last of it, drops the flask among the laundry he should do, and strides out to the kitchen. He feels like the radio in his cupboard-studio, with the static only turned down.

Thanksgiving had been fine, by all standards. Gracie had visited, with her husband and their daughter, now nearly two, and his parents had been very taken with her. _All the better to be avoided_. He had emptied his meager alcohol supply from his bedroom, carried out the required annual conversations, and bounced little Anna on his knee, grinning at her laughter in spite of himself, when her father, _his_ brother-in-law, had spilt gravy down his front.

Being back at college had, if anything, turned down the static once more. But it was now three weeks until final assessments, and Dr Hucheloup, head of Theatre and Dance, had scheduled their choreography stuff for the final two days of the exam block. Now, Enjolras was sitting in his flat, pretty as you please, wanting to talk to Jehan about something Meaningful, no doubt. Grantaire just wants to complain loudly about his project, and ask if Courfeyrac has made any moves yet.

Instead, he finds a few slices of bread and slips them into the toaster. It’s half past twelve, but he last ate a real meal twenty-four hours ago. He’s been shaky all morning, not just from lack of food.

“Bit early, isn’t it?” asks Enjolras, still frowning at the book in his hands.

“Sorry?”

Enjolras freezes, and Grantaire is suddenly under the impression that he hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

“Nothing,” he says.

A pause.

“Huh?” says Feuilly, resurfacing from absorption in his notes.

He’s spread-eagled across the remainder of the carpet, trying to read three essays at once.

Grantaire’s toast _pings_ from behind him, but he ignores it, looking back at Enjolras, who is drumming a tattoo against the textbook margins with his fingers. He has a sickening lurch of a second as Enjolras’ mouth opens, where he knows exactly what he’s going to say, and he blinks hard.

“I said, it’s a bit early. I mean, you know, to be drinking.”

His ears are ringing. He is staring a spot on the wall over Enjolras’ left shoulder. He has no idea what to say.

“Enjolras.”

Jehan’s voice is steely and so unlike his usual self that Grantaire feels his body twitch slightly. His friend is glancing between them, on his feet, his study forgotten on the desk behind him.

“Fuck it,” Grantaire forces out, surprising himself. He laughs, hollow. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

His voice is shaking. He needs to get out, but there’s nowhere to go. Jehan seems to have somehow communicated to Enjolras. The latter has let the textbook slide from his hands.

“I – shouldn’t have said that,” he says at last.

Grantaire turns away, rescues his toast, and butters it. He can hear Jehan hissing something venomous over his shoulder, but no words. The static in his ears is suddenly unbearable.

“R,” says Feuilly, tentative, the hissing between the other two still dull in background.

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” Grantaire can hear his voice shudder, can feel it slipping, and grasps at it. “Just fine. I’m going out.”

“Grantaire.”

It’s Enjolras, and though his voice is very quiet, it cuts through the buzzing. Grantaire drags his gaze from the toast back to the others.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” Enjolras says. “I’m sorry.”

He looks stricken, cheeks still dusted red from the cold, and Grantaire finds that he doesn’t really care.

“Don’t feel like you have to babysit the addict, Ap – ”

“Just let me apologize.” He takes a breath. “Sorry. That was shitty of me, and I didn’t think.”

“I’m going out,” Grantaire hears himself say again, dull.

He gets all the way to the foyer before realizing his coat and keycard are back in his room.

 

<> 

 

“Fuck’s _sake_ ,” he mumbles, much later, into his phone.

He’s ignored every variation of _you left your jacket_ texted by his roommates, and called Eponine. Sitting on the bottom step, the stone edge of the second digging into his back, he feels a little more grounded.

“Seriously, R.”

He’s got crumbs all down his front from his toast he somehow managed to get down between Eponine’s interrogatory questions.

“I’m _not_ going to say anything, and even if I agreed with you, I wouldn’t,” he says.

“Hey, listen to me – wait, sorry, R, one sec.”

“’S fine.”

He hears her calling out, presumably down the hallway of her flat. _Gav? Oh, alright I’ll see you later –_ then she’s back on the phone.

“He’s literally working against people being assholes,” she says.

“He _literally_ hates me, Ep. I’m fine with things just being civil between us, and if he wants to fuck that up, I’ll leave the ball in his court.”

He reminds himself to keep his voice down for the tenth time.

“Alright, alright,” Eponine mutters. “But R, if he keeps giving you shit like this I’m going to tell him myself that he should get out of your face.”

“It’ll be fine,” Grantaire lies, with a confidence he doesn’t feel and she doesn’t buy. “I’ll see you around, whenever, y’know.”

“Stay safe,” she says, and hangs up.

 

<> 

 

“Fuck, fuck, I – ” a shuffling of fabric, then “ _fuck_ – ”

The last expletive sounds far less clear, as if Feuilly is speaking underwater. Grantaire looks up from the sketches due to Mabeuf before Christmas and frowns. Feuilly is glaring at something in his hands.

“’S matter?”

Feuilly doesn’t respond, squinting slightly at the grey plastic hook in his hands and twisting something on it. _Right. Hearing aids_. He pushes himself to his feet, sidesteps the playstation controllers strewn over the floor, and taps Feuilly on the shoulder.

“What is it?”

He says it a little slower than usual once his housemate looks up, and curses his inability to pick up basic sign language.

“Battery connection,” Feuilly manages, in the same underwater voice.

 

<> 

 

“So, when someone invents a non-temperature-sensitive hearing device you’ll die happy?” Jehan asks, grinning, much later.

Feuilly rolls his eyes. They’re dry, but red, and his eyebrows have that pinched look about them, as if it’s an effort to keep everything together. Grantaire pointedly doesn’t think about this state of mind, reminds himself that a sudden inability to hear is a far more drastic experience than his own, swigs his drink.

“It’ll be another day or two, they said, but not much I can do. Couldn’t aff – it’s the easiest option,” Feuilly changes tack, looking away.

Jehan clasps his shoulder, suddenly serious.

“Couldn’t afford what?”

“Well, I could’ve paid extra for express post, gotten them back by today,” Feuilly mumbles.

“Just ask to borrow the money next time,” says Jehan briskly. “Drinks?”

“Get a few jugs,” Bahorel says.

They’ve been joined by him, Eponine, Cosette, and Marius, and are waiting on Enjolras and Combeferre to arrive for the meeting. Bahorel is working late, and the others are caught up in study or, in the case of Musichetta, exam supervision. Meanwhile, Grantaire’s phone buzzes, and others around the table pull out their own as he reads what is presumably a group message.

**Nice Rac / 6.02pm**

_advance apologies fr bein late 2 ABC 2nite – rehearsals r a bitch. more imprtntly, im reinstating Annual Xmas Sweater Celebrtn, so get thriftin’! courf out xx_

“I will never understand his particular brand of textspeak,” says Eponine, throwing her phone onto the table. “Like, just, _why_.”

Feuilly runs his hands through his hair and nearly dislodges the receiver in his left ear.

“Is it really loud in here or is that me?”

Grantaire takes in his pinched frown and fidgeting hands, and bats Feuilly’s hand gently away from his buzz cut.

“It’s pretty loud.”

“That’s the problem with the replacement ones,” he says. “No distinction between foreground and background noise.”

“It sucks,” Grantaire says back, because what else is he meant to say.

“What sucks?” asks Marius.

“Vaccuum cleaners. Black holes. Thanks,” Grantaire adds to Jehan, who has returned with beer.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, honestly,” says Feuilly.

He shuffles in his seat to face the others, and is halfway through an explanation when Combeferre and Enjolras arrive.

“’S matter?” asks Enjolras, stifling a yawn, and drops into a chair beside Bahorel.

“Cochlear implant technology,” Feuilly says, and cracks a grin. “I hear it’s just not what it used to be.”

There’s a collective groan around the table before Combeferre calls them to order.

“So,” says Enjolras, and his voice is strong, any tiredness put aside. “We’ve had just over two months’ worth of meetings.”

He stares around the table, lips curving just slightly. Avoiding eye contact, Grantaire mimics him, taking in everyone’s snow-dusted hair and the layers they’ve shed, scarves draped over the backs of chairs or tied loose around their necks.

“So far, so good,” Combeferre says, shrugging.

Enjolras smiles properly at that. He’s in his element.

“For sure. Can we get that list up of the projects so far?”

“Yep, one sec – ah, here.”

Combeferre slides his laptop across the table and takes advantage of the clear path to the closest jug of beer.

“Alright,” Enjolras clears his throat, frowning slightly. “We had the initial aims of the ABC back in the first week, then Musichetta’s _lovely_ colleague, Marius’ student voice project – obviously that went hand-in-hand with Halloween, too – and then more of the LGBT visibility after the gala, and the campus accessibility stuff thanks to Joly.”

“And no one’s failed the semester,” adds Cosette.

“Adulthood,” Grantaire says, toasting the table at large.

He’s pretty sure that Enjolras snorts into his own drink as Combeferre rescues his laptop.

“If we’re adults we have to use our time productively,” says Enjolras, apparently under control once more and glaring at Grantaire. “We’ve got just under two weeks before college breaks for Christmas.”

They start throwing out suggestions, and Grantaire allows himself to be lulled back into his usual state of only mild panic that follows any interaction with Enjolras. It’s dulled somewhat when Bahorel suggests a petting zoo and their table explodes into slightly hysterical laughter.

“It’s _freezing_ ,” Marius says. “The poor animals would hate it.”

“A petting _barn_ , then?” suggests Bahorel.

“Shut up, Bahorel,” says Eponine, affectionate and violent all at once.

“In all seriousness, though,” says Combeferre, and the meeting resumes its dragging pace.

Grantaire replays Enjolras’ laughter in the back of his mind, staring at the cardboard coaster slowly disintegrating beneath his beer via condensation. He definitely doesn’t glance up to check the scarring still purplish-red at Enjolras’ temple. The conversation turns to college meals outside the academic year.

“The one thing this campus does right,” Enjolras mutters, all righteous fury.

“What, staff leave?”

“Only selectively,” he says to Jehan. “Chetta says that mainly applies for the academics.”

“And casual staff don’t count in their data, either,” adds Feuilly.

“ _What_?”

“Yep,” he says, grim. “The academic staff, and any resident employees, get benefits and leave and all that for Thanksgiving or Christmas. Casuals, like a lot of the student workers, and anyone working on a visa? Not a chance.”

“So, wait, the kitchens and all that end up staffed by casual and visa workers? That’s shitty,” says Cosette.

“That’s why they’re understaffed,” Enjolras says, frowning.

“And grumpy. Hell, I would be too,” Eponine tells the table at large. “You guys know how many jobs I’ve had, but none were quite that bad.”

“So is that a vote for something relevant to food and/or holiday cheer?”

Combeferre counts raised hands and types a summary, hitting the return key with some finality. Enjolras peers at the screen over his shoulder, and Grantaire turns to Feuilly, who is massaging his temples.

“Headache,” he says, by way of explanation.

“Want to head home?” asks Jehan, from his other side.

“In a bit. Ferre, can you put hot chocolate on a list for festive suggestions?”

He complies, and Feuilly nudges Grantaire.

“You should make a design for some of those takeout cups and we can find a way to get it printed.”

“Arguably I should be drawing them myself. Handcrafted Christmas gifts are meant to be very in vogue,” he says, in the most New Yorker accent he can muster. “Snowflakes, pine trees...I could sketch them all day.”

“You should, though,” says Jehan, thoughtful.

“Art’s meant to give people joy, or something. I guess I can. Would that count as ABC contribution, Apollo?”

He’s not sure why he’s offering, but the idea is appealing. Enjolras looks up from the laptop screen.

“Bitter contribution doesn’t exactly count,” he says, waspish. “Only if you actually want to.”

“Christmas is about the only thing I can get excited about,” Grantaire replies, grinning. “My sketches are at your service.”

“R, you can even sign them and everything,” says Cosette, earnest. “People would get to carry around little personal sketches all day!”

Grantaire snorts.

“More likely I’ll end up seeing my signature in every trash can on campus. I’ll file away the traumatic memory for whenever I next have visions of actually making money doing art.” He pretends to adjust imaginary glasses. “Oh R, don’t you remember the time four thousand students literally tossed your name in with their old sandwiches?”

Enjolras has abandoned secondhand notetaking over Combeferre’s shoulder, hands folded beneath his chin, elbows on the table.

“Nothing wrong with getting your name out there,” he says, making eye contact, and Grantaire looks away.

“Don’t look so glum, Enjolras, my man,” cries Courfeyrac from the doorway, striding over to their group and scattering snow in every direction.

Marius pats an empty seat beside him. Enjolras sits up, though it appears an effort.

“How was rehearsal?”

“Jehan, you would have loved it – all poetry! Oh, and Marius, don’t let me forget, I need to ask you about this German afterwards.”

Courfeyrac digs into his bag and pulls out a collection of what appears to be _Selected Plays of Heiner Müller_ , waving it at Marius and Cosette’s corner of the table.

“Feuilly, Eponine,” he adds, clapping them each on a shoulder. “How _are_ you?”

Feuilly winces.

“Hearing aids got fucked up yesterday, so I’ve got a screaming headache,” he admits.

“What happened?” asks Enjolras.

Feuilly explains in brief, Courfeyrac apologises, pouring more beer for everyone, and Enjolras is, unsurprisingly, enraged.

“You’re expected to pay express post for that kind of thing? God, what kind of accessibility scheme doesn’t – ”

“You’re forgetting that someone might, perish the thought, try to take advantage of the system,” Grantaire says.

He receives The Stare for his mocking tone, which, fair enough.

“Who’s going to take advantage of a hearing specialist?” mutters Eponine.

“I _hear_ there are ways,” Grantaire says, and Courfeyrac pretends to backhand him across the face.

“Don’t worry, Courf. _Ear_ the year’s out we’ll hear about some case or other,” says Jehan, grinning.

Marius spits out his mouthful of beer across the table and onto Müller’s grumpy portrait.

“Now, are we adjourned? We need to address the Real Issues here,” Courfeyrac asks, midway through daubing the playwright dry.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. Jehan giggles.

“ _Christmas sweaters_ ,” Courfeyrac says grandly, staring around the table. “Don’t worry, the rules are simple.”

For perhaps the first time in his life, he’s right, thinks Grantaire.

_One. The sweater must be recognizably festive._

_Two. The sweater must be a size that at least two giftees of the group can wear._

_Three. The sweater must be secondhand. (Amendment: the sweater may also be handmade. The main aim is objecting to festive capitalism.)_

_Bonus points for the most embarrassing/clever/ ~~rude~~ /beautiful sweater._

Last year, the secret santa idea had been assumed early on by anyone with any sense of Courfeyrac’s seasonal excitement. Musichetta had brought up the price issue, and suggested a cap on it, or thrifting. In a tale of Herculanean proportions, Bahorel had assured the group at large that the only True way to play secret santa was through thievery. All in all, it had been pretty successful, as far as inaugural Christmas traditions could go.

“Any questions?”

Everyone except Enjolras shakes their head. He frowns.

“Is this some kind of weird annual tradition I’m intruding on?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, emphatic.

“This is a weird and only-once-attempted-before tradition to which you are most _cordially_ invited.”

 

<> 

 

Mabeuf emails in the final week of semester to tell him his final sketches are adequate, and Grantaire pours himself, Feuilly and Jehan glasses of wine after dinner.

“Last one,” he says. “I’ve got to cram too many studio hours into the next four days.”

Jehan knocks his glass – well, mug – into Grantaire’s, and drains it.

“To passing our courses, and the end of semester!”

“And Christmas,” adds Feuilly, and downs his own.

As per usual, Grantaire makes it through about eighteen hours before he throws up. Unlike usual, he drags himself off the art department’s bathroom floor, brushes his teeth, and returns to his closet workshop, shakier than ever but determined to finish a full panel. The wine had been at around ten the previous night, so the winter dusk has set in by the time he steps back from a fully-colored backdrop and has a full thirty seconds to admire it before he has to go be sick again.

The current project plan has remained almost the same as his initial proposals to Mabeuf: found family. It’s different now, though, in that he can’t avoid the fact that every member of the ABC fulfills that role for him. Jehan, with his quiet friendship, and Eponine with her caustic one, were brutally obvious from the beginning. But the Feuilly-Bahorel-Courfeyrac jokes, Combeferre’s warm dedication, Joly and co’s general loveliness, Marius and Cosette’s awkward but honest affection…these are as much a part of him, too.

Perhaps his only introspective question now is that of Enjolras. For once, it’s not even about his tangled alternations between infatuation and frustration. The panels of this part of his work are meant to come together like a Japanese screen. When he only had his initial ideas about family this wasn’t going to be a problem, but how can he depict everyone side-by-side when there is so obviously a central figure?

 _Well, figures_ , he amends, if he retains Combeferre and Courfeyrac in their rightful places. But where to slot in Enjolras, really? He rinses his mouth and spits the bitter water into the sink before returning to the darkening studio.

There’s no doubt he can leave Enjolras out, no matter the animosity, and it’s not being made any easier by the lull they’ve had more recently. Their last face-to-face conversation, barring Lamarque’s class, had been about the ABC Christmas cups on Monday night.

_“So, you’ll be happy to draw them?”_

_“Your wish is my command, dear leader.”_

_“Don’t mock North Korean savagery so close to Christmastime.”_

_“Weren’t we in the spirit of mocking seasonal capitalism, just in general?”_

_“Shut it.”_

It has the air of a practised exchange. Grantaire doesn’t know what he wants that to mean.

Art history has settled into a similarly-strange truce. Enjolras still tears everything apart, but Grantaire texts him a running commentary on his arguments at the same time and receives pleasantly biting replies.

**sent / 4.07pm**

_whoop, there it is_

**Apollo / 4.07pm**

_?_

**sent / 4.08pm**

_your specialty: The Opinion Piece TM_

**Apollo / 4.10pm**

_What else am I meant to consider in this class? Actual fact?_

**sent / 4.11pm**

_well, try considering Lamarque’s horrific Marxism-tinted glasses, for one thing_

**Apollo / 4.14pm**

_Well of course, he’s a liberal arts professor, for god’s sake. Is my Consideration of them not obvious to you?_

**sent / 4.19pm**

_try going for an identifiable angle, Apollo, rather than your usual Revolutionary.jpeg approach. And don’t take the lord’s name in vain_

**Apollo / 4.20pm**

_I’m not altogether unhappy with my high school ‘godless socialist’ label, you know_

**Apollo / 4.33pm**

_Nice phone confiscation technique, R – whenever you see this you can tell me how you manage to remain simultaneously cynical about/invested in 1940s fascist art, yet reprimand my judeochristian swearing_

Then, much later on.

**sent / 2.04am**

_remind me never to start a vocabulary war with you ever again_

**sent / 3.27am**

_fuc k that was meant to be to law nerd sorry_

**Apollo / 6.14am**

_As payback for those wakeup texts, good morning. Also, regardless of what I assume are Bahorel’s (?) spelling abilities, ‘judeochristian’ isn’t exactly out of your league_

**sent / 6.16am**

_u talk good. now fuck off and let me sleep_

He supposes there’s also the issue of whether this is a Self Portrait With Family or not. Maybe he’ll reconsider that idea about mirrors instead of canvases for another piece in the collection. He might ask Eponine. Still, his friends are a little more portrait-worthy than his own face.

 

<> 

 

Trying to find a sweater is proving difficult. Eponine has offered to help find things – _to get you to shut up, R_ – but the problem is more that he just can’t really be bothered. He’s also enjoying the opportunity he gets to just send very stupid google image searches to the ABC _en masse_ , rather than actually choosing one. He found a particularly good one earlier this morning. Scrolling on his phone while waiting for the usual stream of anemic ballet freshmen to leave studio seven, he found what he assumed was meant to be Christmas tree decorations sewn in rows, but in unrecognizable and sometimes inappropriate shapes.

(He ends up ducking in to a store on his way to a Thursday meeting and picking up a sweater that has two large baubles across the front, and the word ‘Balls’ embroidered below.)

 

<> 

 

Snowfall makes carrying mock canvases to and from the studio a nightmare, which is how Grantaire finds himself in the back of Combeferre’s car on a Tuesday evening. He’s shaky and sweaty from the drinks he hasn’t had and from Floreal’s class. Although wedged between two foam-board color sketches, Combeferre’s medical detritus, and Jehan, he’s thankful for the conversation starters, because Enjolras is in the front passenger seat beside Combeferre and ready to pass judgment on all and sundry.

“No bike today?” asks Jehan, apparently choosing to ignore the crackling tension Enjolras is producing as he Stares out the front seat.

“Too icy,” he says shortly.

“It’s not far to drive past his,” says Combeferre to the car at large, flicking on the left indicator. “So I swung by this morning.”

Every other owner of a car in town seems to have had the same idea, though, because it takes them nearly twenty minutes to navigate back to their block. The snow means they take at least another ten to unload their stuff from the back, too.

“Alright, we good to go?” Enjolras grits out, window unwound a fraction so he can talk to them from inside the car.

“Peachy,” says Jehan, smiling. “Thanks for the lift, Ferre!”

“Fucking finally,” Enjolras says under his breath, and Combeferre reverses back onto the street and out of sight.

“What’s up with him,” Grantaire mutters, cold hands struggling to swipe his keycard.

“Everyone’s keyed up,” Jehan says, quiet.

He takes the card from Grantaire, slides it deftly into the sensor, and shoves the door open.

Upstairs, Grantaire takes to sketching Christmas patterns feverishly onto paper cups. The ABC acquired several hundred of them from Musain, courtesy of Valjean, who ordered them cheaply in bulk. He’s done nearly a hundred with proper little sketches; another two hundred or so just have a handful of snowflakes scattered across them in blue or red. All of them have an ‘R’ somewhere, too, but Grantaire isn’t counting on that meaning anything.

“Pity you can’t put a link to more of your artwork on them,” muses Jehan, stacking the most recent fifty back into a kind of sleeve.

He tosses the stack into the cardboard box that’s taken up residence in the corner of their lounge area.

“I should have designed, like, twenty stickers and enlisted everyone to help stick them,” Grantaire says, a tad too frustrated with the lopsided pine tree he’s just drawn. “Why am I an idiot?”

“You’re not an idiot,” says Jehan firmly. “These will be so much nicer, even if you hate it now.”

“Ugh,” he replies, because Jehan is right.

It’s also because Enjolras’ enthusiasm is starting to make Grantaire actually _do_ things, and that kind of sway scares him.

“Remember, I’m _not_ selling the drinks,” he adds, flatly, when Jehan looks like he’s going to ask for the fourth time this week. “Enj – the ABC is getting plenty of manual labor from me this way.”

 

<> 

 

His knee keeps clicking. He tells himself it’s just the cold as he returns to the taped cross sign marked _upstage left_ on the studio’s back corner tarkett, and scrubs roughly at his eyes with shaky hands.

There’s a rickety tripod set up at the opposite end of the room, with a camera rolling. Its red light blinks at Grantaire, trying his patience. He just has to get at least three decent takes and then he’ll splice them together and hand them in tomorrow.

 _Coupé jeté_ over, and under, step, _pas de basque_ , _glissé_ , _chassé relevé_ –

“Fuck,” Grantaire says under his breath, and feels his knee give out.

He lowers himself to the floor, sliding inelegantly, his left leg held somewhat stiffly. Unfortunately, not moving it won’t make the sharp pain behind the joint magically disappear. It’s like being back in first year and falling out of turns again and again, head spinning from drink. Except it’s not, because he’s been so Sensible by comparison this year, and there’s no proper reason for this to happen right now.

He bends his right leg so his foot is beneath the left knee, like a bony cushion, and considers the four meters between him and the door, his phone conveniently tucked into his bag beside it. He could probably call for someone to bring an icepack from the hallway, but that would be admitting his stupidity.

(“Watch your left knee, you’re way off balance,” Floreal says.

“Sorry, sorry,” he shifts it and winces.

“Don’t ruin it now, Grantaire. There’s only fifteen more minutes,” she warns. “Go stretch – _carefully_ – and drop in at physio before you go home. I daresay this is your last class?”

He doesn’t, and instead dashes to a strangely-empty Art Theory class where Enjolras is conspicuously absent. They only have the final essay – a meager thousand words – left. Grantaire can’t blame him for not bothering to turn up; Lamarque has only taken the roll three times thus far.)

He nurses his knee, gently kneading either side of the joint where he can feel the swelling, puffy and irritated beneath his fingers. _Fuck_. When the pain has subsided to a dull throb he forces himself to his feet, grabs his phone, and ducks into the hallway to grab an icepack from the office. He double-takes at the noticeboard beside the office doorway; it’s his own handwriting, _A_ , _B_ , _C_ , superimposed against red. Jehan’s managed to put posters around the entire campus.

He’s ambushed on his way back inside, limping, when his phone rings. He tucks it between his ear and shoulder without checking caller ID.

“’llo?”

“Grantaire.”

The voice is crackly at the other end, and his lack of hearing isn’t helped by the gaggle of dance majors leaving their final recital walkthroughs at the other end of the hallway.

“Sorry, can’t hear, one sec – ” he hobbles inside, leans against the wall, and slides down to sit beside his bag. “Right.”

“It’s Enjolras,” says the voice one the other end, and then, before Grantaire’s heart can restart and he can lay his woeful crush to rest, “sorry, bad timing?”

(Of course, of all the times to receive a call from him, Grantaire is not hungover, in pain, or exhausted, but rather all three. )

“Uh,” he says, and clears his throat. “It’s fine, I’m taking a break right this second. How can I help, Apollo?”

“This is going to be weird,” Enjolras says.

If Grantaire didn’t know better, he’d describe his tone as nervous. As it is, though, he just bites back the urge to reply that Enjolras calling him at all is pretty weird anyway.

“I wanted to ask a favour.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I drop in to yours for a few hours? Power’s out all down our side of town, and college internet is shitty at the best of times.”

“I’m in a dance studio right this second. Where’re you?”

(Grantaire doesn’t consider why Enjolras called him of all people, when almost the entire ABC lives on campus. It’s too much of a heartache to think about how he must be his last resort.)

 

<> 

 

“This,” Grantaire taps his knee, covered by the icepack, “is fine. How’s study?”

“Doesn’t – it doesn’t look fine.”

“Honestly, shut up, Apollo.”

“Are you sure you’re – “

“Leave it,” Grantaire bites out, jaw clenched.

He hasn’t moved from his spot beside the doorway since Enjolras’ call. The icepack is starting to thaw, but the numbness is only just starting to set in properly.

“Sucks that even the library is so full,” he says, attempting to make conversation.

Enjolras looks up at him from the notes he’s now spread about him, a pool of neatly-written flash cards and scrawled essay outlines. So much for their truce on animosity.

“I’ve got to read this for Cosette before, before Friday, edit a paper, and read all – all –” he slams a hand against the pile of readings in front of him, “ – all this, so sorry, Grantaire, but I’m not up for a _nice chat_ right now.”

He swallows, and returns to glaring at his essay scaffold. His voice sounds weird. Grantaire can’t put his finger on why, but it’s enough to tell him, combined with the stutter, that Enjolras has too much on his plate.

“We missed your usual contributions on Tuesday,” Grantaire says, after several minutes, because he is unable to shut up.

“Migraine,” says Enjolras, now vague, frowning down at a pale green flashcard.

“You get them a lot.”

A wry smile.

“I’ll be glad when I’m done with all this,” he says, and gestures around him. “I’ve been sick at least once every day this week.”

Um.

“You should probably get that checked out,” says Grantaire, eyeballing one of Floreal’s comments in his notebook and not taking in a word.

Enjolras laughs, humorless.

“Stress-induced. Nothing I can do about it except wait until finals are over.”

“Well, get back to work, then, I-Can’t-Chat-Right-Now.”

Enjolras bristles, but returns to his reading. Grantaire pushes himself to his feet, grimacing, and walks carefully to the camera, squinting through the viewfinder and prodding at it until Enjolras is out of the shot. It’s a pity he can’t have him in it, really. He would make a good woodland sprite, or some such scenery, with the dim studio lights catching his hair against the dark windows –

He cuts off his train of thought violently and returns to the far corner, restarting the music on the way. His knee is still pretty numb, and he’s hoping it’ll stay that way until he gets a final take. At least his own nausea is carefully moderated, he thinks, pulling a face, and starts the _pas en diagonale_ from the beginning.

Enjolras _does_ look stressed, though, Grantaire has to admit to himself, sneaking glances as much as his choreography permits. More than usual. Grantaire swallows a helpless smile mid-pirouette, disgusted that he could revel in Enjolras being less than perfect and feeling simultaneously relieved. He finds Enjolras meeting his gaze, sharp, the next time he looks across at him, and doesn’t look back until he’s run the sequence three more times.

 _Just the last allegro left_ , he thinks, limping back to his bag to find his water bottle.

“That – ” Enjolras says, and pauses.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, water bottle raised halfway to his lips.

“Is – what’s the recording for?”

“Choreography final,” he tells him, and briefly explains.

“It’s pretty cool,” says Enjolras, quiet, and turns back to his notes.

“Gee, thanks.”

Enjolras exhales, frustrated. The skin beneath his eyes is puffy with tiredness.

“That wasn’t sarcasm.”

Grantaire shrugs, feeling his face redden, and turns away to go reset the camera. The last sequence only needs to be a half-screen shot, because it will be slowed down for the progress recording he has to hand in.

“What’s all that for?”

He gestures vaguely at the papers taking up a quarter of the studio.

“Twenty-four hour take home paper tomorrow.” A pause, wherein Grantaire fiddles with the unsteady tripod. “Trying to revise the content so I can maybe get it in by close of business tomorrow and actually sleep.”

“Sleep’s a good plan.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, but drops his face into his hands.

“We never got you to dance, you know,” Grantaire says suddenly. “At Bossuet’s. We’ll have to make it happen at Christmas, whenever one of us manages to organize something.”

Enjolras lets out what sounds suspiciously like a huff of laughter, face still in his hands.

“ _Someone_ needs to enforce our Compulsory Dance Rule, I suppose,” he says.

He looks up at Grantaire between his fingers, and Grantaire can’t help but laugh, and Enjolras joins in, helpless, and Grantaire knows he shouldn’t have captured this moment on camera and he should erase it.

(Later, he might try to convince himself that he didn’t mean to keep Enjolras in the shot, but that would be lying. So now he has Enjolras, tired and smiling, _laughing_ , at a spot just to the left of the camera, _at Grantaire_ , in a portion of otherwise-blank footage he won’t have the heart to delete.)

 

<> 

 

“Come in, come in,” Feuilly says, hushed.

“Everything alright?” Enjolras asks, in a tired undertone.

Their flat is subdued when he and Grantaire get back. Jehan has definitely been crying, and Feuilly mimes a cutthroat gesture at both of them, jerking his head towards the alcove as they come inside. Jehan waves, a wobbly smile pasted on, and retreats behind his textbook.

“Study blues,” says Feuilly.

“I can – try to call someone else – am I going to be in the way?”

Enjolras goes to pull out his phone, but Feuilly shakes his head.

“It’s fine. Have you eaten? There’s pasta if you – ”

Grantaire tunes them out, dropping his bag at the door and shuffling into the kitchen to grab a fresh icepack. Meanwhile, Enjolras finds a spot on the carpet beside the coffee table, scrubs at his eyes, and takes out his laptop. Feuilly drops onto the couch.

Editing the video should probably be a job of several hours, but Grantaire scrapes something together before ten o’clock and submits it to ClassOnline. He’ll have to leave his laptop open to check it actually uploads; Enjolras may think campus internet is shitty, but college-funded housing doesn’t do much better. Afterwards, he wanders into the kitchen to pour himself a drink.

Jehan has vanished, presumably gone to bed, but the other two are frowning down at their respective work, slumped around the coffee table.

“Are you two going to be up for ages?” he asks, tentative.

 Feuilly tries to answer and manages an expansive yawn instead.

“Not at this rate,” he says finally, and resumes staring at his notes.

“Enjolras?”

His face is taut, lit by his laptop screen, his lips moving silently. Feuilly reaches over with some difficulty and prods his leg. Enjolras looks up, and takes several seconds to reply.

“Sorry?”

Grantaire repeats the question.

“I’d – I need a little while longer, if that’s, if that’s okay,” he says.

Grantaire shoves his hands into his pockets.

“It’s fine. When you say _a little while –_ ”

“Quite a while,” snaps Enjolras.

His voice cracks, just slightly. He looks back at his laptop. The kitchen windowpane takes that moment to rattle, the snowfall only getting heavier outside.

Grantaire fills the kettle and passes them both tea a few moments later. He’s too restless, so he retrieves Lamarque’s final essay scaffold and curls up in the corner of the couch, scratching dot points into the margins. Enjolras lets his tea get cold.

“Adoption law?” Grantaire asks, peering blearily at the laptop screen. Its owner twitches slightly, as if defensive. “Still for your paper?”

Enjolras shakes his head.

“Just reading. A favor for Cosette,” he adds, when Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “There’s been some trouble with her mom’s things not being passed on to her.”

Fantine had passed away last year after a cruelly-brief reunion. Grantaire doesn’t like to dredge up the memory of a hollow look behind Cosette’s eyes.

“Why’s that?” Feuilly asks, hoarse.

“Fantine’s signature on certain paperwork means that she was only her legal parent for a few hours, but of course she left everything she had to her,” Enjolras says.

“Adoption laws are shit,” says Feuilly quietly.

“They shift a lot,” Enjolras says, “but Cosette will be alright, if I’m reading this correctly.”

“That’s – great,” Feuilly mumbles, but at least he is smiling.

Grantaire blocks out the personal conversations he’s had with Feuilly, too, for similar _hollow look_ reasoning as Cosette’s. Seeing him cry had been physically painful.

“Combeferre going to pick you up?” he asks Enjolras, much later, as Feuilly stands to make his way to bed.

“He’s on night shift,” Enjolras says, and leans down to pull something from his bag, eyes not leaving his screen. “I’ll ride home, my bike’s outside.”

Soon after one in the morning, he packs up his notes and refuses when Feuilly tries to insist that he stay the night on the couch.

“Text one of us when you get home,” Feuilly says, glancing across at Grantaire. “It’s icy out.”

“I’ve imposed enough,” says Enjolras, smile strained. “Thanks again.”

**Apollo / 1.47am**

_I forgot to say – the Christmas sketches look great_

**sent / 1.48am**

_is Jehan going around outing my artistic genius again_

**Apollo / 1.54am**

_The cups are literally taking up half of your living room_

**sent / 1.56am**

_you all did say you wanted at least five hundred_

**Apollo / 1.59am**

_Sorry not sorry – goodnight_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up all the stuff about adoption laws for Plot Purposes – please don’t judge me. In fact, I’ve made up a hell of a lot of things because, you know, fiction.
> 
> Also, fun fact: [‘Patterns in Democracy’ is a real book ](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/85028.Patterns_of_Democracy)
> 
> Expect a very Christmassy chapter by Christmas Eve if not before! After that, updates will probably be every fortnight.
> 
> All feedback/comments/kudos/etc. appreciated, as usual :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lovesick_ , Grantaire doesn’t say.
> 
> “I might go get some water,” he says instead, as if it’s only the drink and not this conversation making his head spin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a probable panic attack, and drunkenness almost to the point of blacking out. A more cheerful heads up, however, for Christmassy celebrations, the Sweater Swap, and some romance.

“You know what I hate?” Eponine practically snarles, slamming her cardboard cup down and spilling coffee over the tabletop. “Shitty advice.”

“Why do you hang out with me, then?”

She punches Grantaire in the shoulder.

“I mean the well-meaning shitty kind. _Do what you love_ , or _there’s good in everything_ , or whatever other upper-middle class perspective you can think of.”

They’re in Musain, between Grantaire’s godforsaken early Friday shift – a favor to Valjean – and Eponine’s later one.

“Careful, you’re starting to sound like Enjolras.”

“Shut the fuck up about your crush for five seconds, can’t you?” she mutters, acidic.

She’s crushing the coffee cup in her hands.

“Sorry. What’s up?”

“Christmas,” she says, quietly. “More specifically the – fucking – _family_ emphasis.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“Combeferre’s text, remember?”

He remembers, alright.

**Ferre Dinkum / 8.43pm**

_Hi all, on Christmas Eve Eve (i.e. Dec 23) you’re all welcome to Enjolras’ place for the sweater swap/general seasonal family time. Let him/me know either way if you’re around. Ferre_

“Well, I replied saying I’d have to see, because I don’t know whether – ”

“You’re not – ”

“I’m not planning to go home,” she says, eyes a little bright, “but it’s Gav’s choice.”

“Is it safe to go back, if he wants?”

She shrugs, but doesn’t look up from her coffee cup.

“Gav _stole_ a sweater,” she says softly. “He didn’t even have to. I was going to give him the money, and then he came home with it and I wrung it out of him.”

Grantaire swallows, but doesn’t say anything. It’s Eponine’s point of pride that she’s raised Gavroche, given that their parents neither desired to nor were equipped for the job. Still, if Gav is stealing, it probably means that –

“ – he knows we have enough, but maybe he still feels like he has to? I don’t _know_.” She buries her face in her hands and continues, voice muffled. “Anyway, Combeferre messaged back and told me we were welcome ‘in the ABC family’, or some shit, if we were around.”

She pulls one hand away from her damp cheeks to form vague air quotes.

“That’s shitty,” says Grantaire.

“Yeah,” she tells him. “And he didn’t even mean to be shitty. We need worse friends.”

 

<> 

 

Grantaire wonders briefly if he can wrangle a different graduation pathway with his mess of a degree, and _thunks_ his forehead against the coffee table.

“What’s up?”

“Enrolments,” he says, and Jehan raises an eyebrow. “I have to take at least three more practical dance subjects.”

“O…kay?” Jehan says.

Grantaire exhales, closing his eyes.

“I only scraped through the last ones because of extraordinarily lenient marking. I’m really behind on technique,” he adds.

He doesn’t bother voicing the fact that this is entirely his fault on multiple levels. Even if he spends the entire winter break in the studio, he won’t be able to make up the difference between him and his sober classmates.

Grantaire’s phone buzzes loudly against the tabletop.

**Jollllllly / 5.11pm**

_White Christmas (Bing Crosby only, you heathen, just in case you were considering an alternative)_

After the flurry of end-of-semester essay submissions and, alright, getting drunk because they’re all done, Grantaire has been busying himself with making a Christmas playlist. Joly has been bedridden since his final exam two weeks back, and has been contributing by texting suggestions at regular intervals.

“What time are we meant to be there tonight?” Jehan asks, as Grantaire unsticks his forehead from the table and replies to the message.

**sent / 5.12pm**

_Oh Ye Of Little Faith (Jollllllly,_ _feat. That Was Literally My First Track)_

“Uh, any time from six, I think.”

Grantaire scrolls through more of his music library and adds a few more tracks before his phone buzzes again.

**Jollllllly / 5.15pm**

_Little drummer boy, mainly because Bossuet hates it so much and it’s honestly the funniest thing to watch him sit it out_

**Jollllllly / 5.16pm**

_Before you ask, yes I’m playing it right now [img.406 attached]_

Grantaire suppresses a snort at Bossuet’s pained expression in the photo attachment.

**sent / 5.17pm**

_alright, it’s on the list for your listening pleasure_

**Jollllllly / 5.18pm**

_Please never use that phrase again, it’s awful_

**Jollllllly / 5.19pm**

_Also this one, if you have it?_  [ _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ)

Grantaire has about a quarter second of the link loading before he realizes that it’s not just a song title, before Rick Astley’s face appears on his screen. He prods the Back button hurriedly, clicks on Joly’s name, and presses call.

“I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed,” he says, when Joly picks up.

Joly promptly dissolves into laughter.

“That really should have gotten old by now,” says Bossuet’s voice. “Loudspeaker, incidentally, if you hadn’t already guessed. How’s it doing?”

“Great, great,” says Grantaire. “Are you two going to make it tonight?”

“Maybe for a bit,” Joly says, tentative. “I still feel pretty shitty.”

“But Chetta reckons we should all at least make an appearance.”

“She can drop me home early,” Joly adds, and Bossuet hums in agreement.

“Is his place nearby?”

“Yeah, yeah, Enjolras lives on the corner of Ferre’s street. Hence the elementary school friendship, remember?”

“Right,” Grantaire says, vague.

“I called him before because I was buying groceries and shit, to ask if he wanted extra food for tonight or whatever. He didn’t pick up, but called me back like ten minutes ago – ”

“Oh yeah!” says Joly. “He’s been working all week, didn’t I mention that?”

“Er, why is he hosting a party if he’s working?” Grantaire asks, trying to sound casual.

Jehan catches his eye over his laptop screen and grins. Grantaire flips him off.

“Well,” says Joly, with a patient air, “Enjolras _has_ been known to overcommit.”

 

<> 

 

Combeferre opens the door for them when they finally arrive, somehow windswept walking from Feuilly’s car parked in the street.

“Come in, come in,” he says, tone chiding, and stands back to let them inside.

Grantaire brushes the snow out of his hair and shrugs out of his coat, looking around. They’re standing in what can only be described as an entrance hall, sized down. _The Sound of Music_ in miniature, perhaps.

There’s an honest-to-God pair of staircases, flanked by balustrades, that stretch down from a second floor. The walls are pale and very clean, lit by small globes in brackets along the walls. Brickwork lines the edges of the stairs and the doorways, dark against the otherwise pallid room. Through concertina doors is the promise of a fire, warm light overflowing from behind the wooden panels. It’s somehow very dim, no matter the paleness. Grantaire wonders why it looks as if no one lives here, as if it’s a hotel cleaned out for their visit rather than someone’s home.

Jehan and Feuilly are equally entranced, it would seem, as they hang their coats onto hooks beside the door. Combeferre tilts his head, standing beside the wide doorway.

“Enjolras is going to be out til at least eight,” he says. “He said we should make ourselves at home, and start making dinner.”

“Working?” Jehan asks.

Combeferre grimaces, almost imperceptible, but nods.

“Well, we’d better get started on a good spread before eight, then,” say Feuilly, shrugging. “Do you guys know how to cook Christmas food? I’m only good for making challah.”

“I do,” Musichetta says, popping her head around the doorframe from inside. “Anyway, this fire won’t warm you up from out there. Come in from the gloom.”

They join her, Bossuet, Joly, and Bahorel in front of the grate.

“Sweaters under there,” says Joly, pointing.

There’s a plastic structure that looks kind of like a tree in the corner of the room, bracketed by a television still packed into its box, an upright piano, and a narrow bookcase that seems to be full of mostly sci-fi from before the 1990s. Jehan pulls three bundles from his backpack and tosses them on top of the other lumpy parcels at the foot of the tree.

Joly is lying on a couch, his head in Bossuet’s lap, and waves as Grantaire and Feuilly throw themselves down on chairs opposite.

“How’re you doing?” Grantaire asks.

“Peachy,” Joly says, sarcastic.

“Courf and Marius are out getting ingredients,” says Bossuet, as Joly shifts against the couch cushions, and frowns down at him. “You alright?”

Joly mumbles something unintelligible and burrows into the pillows.

“And Cosette is picking up Ep and Gavroche,” Musichetta adds, reaching across to squeeze Joly’s hand. “Ep texted and said they’re on their way, so they’ll be here any minute with drinks.”

“House is kind of fancy, isn’t it?” says Bahorel, grinning.

“So tidy. His parents must be super clean,” Grantaire says.

“Parents?” says Bossuet. “Nah, apparently he’s the only one living here at the moment.”

“They still live in Indianapolis, I think,” Jehan adds.

Grantaire frowns.

“Wasn’t he at Chicago?”

“Yeah, at college,” says Combeferre from the doorway, holding a tray, and then, “drinks?”

The doorbell rings again when they’re all tucking into eggnog, and Jehan goes to answer it, returning with Courfeyrac and Marius in tow.

“Bugger,” says the latter, loudly, rifling through the shopping bags he’s carrying. “We forgot potatoes _and_ bonbons, Courf.”

Courfeyrac is saved from responding by the doorbell again, and he bounds out of the room to let in the last of them. Cosette, Eponine, and Gavroche tumble in, suitably snow-dusted, toting Grantaire’s favorite kind of glassware.

“We got all sorts,” says Eponine.

“And my dad gave us this, too – look!”

Cosette pulls out two bottles of wine that definitely cost more than twenty dollars each. Grantaire would know; he’s memorized the labels he can afford to buy often.

“We should thank him,” says Combeferre, admiring one of the bottles.

“R! Draw a card for him!” Joly practically yells, now sandwiched between two couch cushions beside Bossuet.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but complies.

“Fine, fine, but Eponine’s writing it.” She protests, to no avail. “Oh, and someone needs to find us some fancy-ass paper from this fancy-ass house.”

Courfeyrac digs out speakers from behind the disused television and plugs in Grantaire’s carefully-crafted Christmas playlist. Bahorel ducks into what is presumably a study somewhere and returns with paper and a handful of pens. Musichetta, Feuilly, Combeferre, and Cosette disappear into the kitchen to start on dinner.

Glancing around, Grantaire find Marius adjusting the pile of sweaters.

“Do you want us to go back out for the potatoes and stuff?”

“That’d be great,” says Marius, relieved. “Potatoes and bonbons are all we need.”

“I’ll come, too?” Jehan offers.

Grantaire sketches out a version of the same Christmas pictures he’s been replicating for the ABC cups: a few trees, snowflakes, and, against the silhouette of an almost-full moon, twelve reindeer and a sleigh. His signature squeezes into the corner between a tree trunk and the edge of the paper.

“Sign somewhere here before we go,” he says, handing over a felt-tip pen to Jehan.

“Cosette,” Eponine calls into the kitchen, “what do you want for the message?”

“Some kind of thank you will be fi – ouch, Feuilly that was my foot!”

Eponine pens a loopy message with the signature _Merry Christmas & all that, from the ABC_, and Grantaire and Jehan grab Feuilly’s car keys before heading out into the snow.

 

<> 

 

“Was there anything else, aside from Christmas crackers?” Jehan asks.

Grantaire half shrugs, half shakes his head. The Walmart is, unsurprisingly, packed, and his patience is waning thin.

“Let’s go line up. If they need anything else we can send someone else back,” he says.

They join the long line of last-minute frazzled customers. Jehan bites nearly clean through his lip before Grantaire asks him what’s going on.

“Nothing,” he says at first, and then, when Grantaire just rolls his eyes, he smiles, shy. “I bought a present for Courf.”

Grantaire resists the urge to punch the air.

“Finally. When are you going to ask him?”

Jehan resumes biting his lip.

“You’re not?”

They shuffle forward as a dad with three young children makes his way to a counter, looking about as done with the festive season as Grantaire feels.

“I – there’s all the stuff with Ferre. I don’t think it’d be right,” says Jehan.

Grantaire blinks. Stuff with Ferre?

“I don’t get it,” he says, blunt. “How is Combeferre relevant right now?”

Jehan blinks.

“Is it not obvious to you?”

“Which part?” Grantaire asks. “You like Courf, Courf very potentially likes you, and Ferre is so straight he should be kicked out of the ABC.”

“Ep and Feuilly _and_ Bahorel are straight,” says Jehan, mild.

“Bahorel’s bi,” Grantaire replies. “Matchy matchy.”

Meanwhile, Jehan’s brain seems to have caught up with Grantaire’s comment.

“Ferre isn’t gay?”

“Not that I know of. I’m almost certain he has a thing for Eponine, if that’s any more solid evidence than my instincts.”

Jehan’s looking down but smiling again, and it would look pretty stupid, given that the basket tucked under his arm is full of potatoes and Christmas crackers, but Grantaire allows him another ten seconds of consideration before interrupting.

“Ask Courf out.”

The cashier at the fourth register calls out for a new customer, and they shuffle past other parcel-laden shoppers.

“I don’t know,” says Jehan, and piles the groceries onto the conveyor belt.

“I will literally ask him out for you,” Grantaire mutters, but is unheard.

“I’ll have a few drinks first,” his flatmate says a few moments later, when they’re back outside.

Hunched against the wind, they make their way back to Feuilly’s car, its roof now dusted with snow.

“Confidence, of course,” says Grantaire, and turns on the ignition. “Just don’t get carried away.”

“Speak for yourself.”

It’s in a low voice, and possibly one he wasn’t meant to hear, but his hands stiffen on the steering wheel. Aside from the hum of the engine, neither of them say a word for a good minute.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” Jehan exhales, all in one breath.

Grantaire shakes his head.

“That was pretty valid. Just – look, ask him out tonight, I swear it’s a better idea than anything else I’ve done this year.”

“ _You_ dragged _me_ along to Musain in time to crash the founding of the ABC,” Jehan points out.

“Fuck you,” Grantaire replies, violently cheerful, and turns on the radio.

The car crawls back along the icy road, retracting the two miles back to Enjolras’ house. _Silver Bells_ is playing, fuzzily, from the dashboard speakers.

“Real talk, R,” says Jehan eventually.

“Hm?”

“In the nicest way – I – ” he takes a deep breath, and Grantaire sneaks a glance at his face as he bites his lip, staring out at the dark asphalt. “It’s kind of scary, what you do.”

“Art, the true Grinch of our time, the – ”

“Grantaire.”

He’s talking about the drinking, and Grantaire may be an idiot, but he’s not stupid enough not to realize this.

“One of these days I will get it together,” he says, dull, and forces the car around a corner a little too fast.

Jehan winces.

“Is that on the agenda?”

“Maybe,” says Grantaire, but he can feel himself coiling like a steel spring.

“Read a poem for me, sometime?” Jehan says, after a moment.

Grantaire flicks the right indicator and coaxes the car around another corner.

“Er,” he says eloquently.

“I want subjective opinions only,” says Jehan. “Doesn’t have to be a scholarly analysis or anything.”

“Yeah, alright, I guess? I don’t know what you’re asking, but sure.”

“Just read the thing, and – ” he pauses.

“Hm?”

Jehan sighs, and runs his hands through his hair out of the corner of Grantaire’s eye.

“I’m going to try to put together a website, a blog, or something. I want to submit stuff to the college paper,” he says.

“Have you thought any more about Liberal Arts stuff?” Grantaire ventures, as he steers into Enjolras’ drive.

“Heaps of times, but I can’t afford a second degree,” says Jehan, grimacing.

“Second degree?”

“Parents are only happy to pay tuition and stuff for a – ” he breaks off for a second, “ – for a real degree.”

Grantaire frowns down at the potatoes and bonbons, then lugs them from the trunk of the car.

 

<> 

 

Enjolras arrives home just as the slightly-burnt potatoes are being set aside to make room for the tray of cauliflower, blanketed in cheese and doused in white sauce, that needs ten minutes in the oven.

 _It has been a Day_ , Grantaire thinks, sipping at a glass of the wine from Valjean and watching the rest of his friends milling around between the kitchen and the sitting room. It’s starting to feel very crowded already, and he can’t stop thinking about dance subject enrolments after a passing comment from Combeferre to Jehan about his timetable.

He’s slipped out into the corridor that must lead to a formal dining room, or maybe a guest bedroom, when he hears a key in a lock. One of the curtains is drawn back as a sliding glass door _clunks_ open, and Enjolras steps in out of the cold. Grantaire jumps.

“Shit-I-didn’t-know-there-was-a-door-there-don’t-scare-a-man-like-that,” he says, clutching his chest dramatically. And then “Evening,” because goddam he cannot turn off the mockery sometimes.

Enjolras looks up from wiping his feet on the doormat.

“Hey.”

He pulls the door shut behind him and runs a hand through his hair, dislodging an impressive amount of snow.

“Work alright?”

Enjolras pulls a face.

“Awful.”

“I thought you said they closed over Christm – ”

“They were meant to,” he says, seething, “but I’m an unpaid intern and they found some uses for me.”

“Workers rights,” Grantaire says, punching a lazy fist into the air.

Enjolras grimaces, shrugging out of his coat.

“It’s a serious issue, but one I don’t have the energy to argue about right – ”

“Dinner’s nearly done, I think,” Grantaire offers, before taking another sizable gulp of wine.

“Already?” Enjolras glances at his watch. “Shit, it’s later than I thought.”

“Enjolras is here!” Grantaire calls down the corridor

He lets the chaos wash over him as the others call out, emerge from the kitchen, and drag Enjolras into his own sitting room.

 

<> 

 

There isn’t actually a large enough table in the house for all of them, so they eat wherever they can find a seat near the fire, draped over couches or cushions on the floor.

Courfeyrac restrains himself until he sees both Feuilly and Enjolras nearly asleep at opposite ends of the largest couch. Feuilly’s plate, like most of the others’, is scraped clean. Enjolras has barely made a dent in his.

“Sweaters!” Courfeyrac says, standing. “Sweaters, before you two are entirely asleep, if nothing else.”

Enjolras drags himself upright from where he’s been slumped against the arm of the couch. Feuilly pulls a face and curls up into a tighter ball.

“How does this work?” Jehan asks, frowning at the pile of presents.

“Everyone has a number,” says Courfeyrac, who is now scribbling on a piece of paper with the felt-tip pen Grantaire used to draw the pine trees. “We go in order, and your turn is either to choose from the pile or steal from someone else. If you get stolen from, you jump the line and become the next person to choose or steal. We keep going til everything’s unwrapped!”

“Can I be number one?” asks Enjolras.

“That’s the worse number…you don’t get to steal!”

“I’m too tired to negotiate theft,” he replies, halfway through shrugging before he yawns.

“Alright, alright, Enj is number one – ” he passes over a scrap of paper, “ – everyone else, take a number.”

Grantaire takes three folded pieces of paper and passes one each to Eponine and Gavroche, who are on either side of him.

“Swap?” Gavroche asks, offering number three to them both.

“Not a chance,” says Eponine, grinning.

Gavroche makes a grab for hers, and Grantaire catches a glimpse of _twelve_ as he shakes his head, pocketing number nine.

Enjolras reaches for a lumpy parcel wrapped in silver, and attempts unwrapping it without tearing the paper until Combeferre reaches across from his spot on the floor and rips through it. Looking only slightly affronted, Enjolras pulls out a dark red sweater which would be nice except for the fact that it’s embroidered around the edges with glittery green thread. He laughs.

“I’m sorry in advance for what I bought,” he says, and pulls it over his head. “This is tame, for a bad Christmas sweater.”

“You get points for nice or creative ones, too,” Courfeyrac reminds him.

Enjolras shrugs, balls up the wrapping paper, and throws it at him.

“Who’s number two?”

Joly waves from his blanket burrito beside Bossuet.

“Can I grab the purple one?” he asks, and Cosette tosses it to him.

He pulls it open and actually gasps.

“This is beautiful,” he breathes, pulling another red sweater from between the wrapping paper.

It’s bordered by white snowflakes at the neck and cuffs and will probably only just fit him.

“Best gift award goes to me,” boasts Eponine.

“This is _amazing_ ,” Joly says to her, folding it reverently, then adds, in a surprisingly menacing tone directed at everyone else, “if any of you steals it…”

He mimes a finger across his throat.

“Who was this from?” Enjolras asks, plucking at the sleeve of his own.

“Me,” says Cosette. “The red suits you.”

He rolls his eyes and settles back into the couch as Gavroche darts forward to inspect the pile.

Gavroche unwraps an entirely-fushia sweater from Bossuet. Jehan ends up with one from Marius which would be nice, but all bar two of the baubles sewn on its front have fallen off – _second hand goodness!_ Marius says, unable to stop laughing – so that it looks as if Jehan has red and blue nipples. Bahorel steals from Gavroche.

“Fushia’s really my color, not yours,” he says, unapologetic, and tugs it on over his red shirt to general disgust.

Gavroche laughs, and opens one from Musichetta with the Iron Throne reimagined with candy canes instead of swords. Bossuet opens Jehan’s sweater with three snowmen knitted across the chest.

“Please, Ferre, open mine if you know what’s good for you,” says Enjolras, sleepy, as Combeferre surveys the presents.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he says mildly.

He takes a while, but ends up choosing Enjolras’ anyway.

“Oh my god,” he says. “Enjolras, you’re a national treasure.”

He holds up the sweater, which has a bearded and robed white man knitted into the pattern, holding two thumbs up. Above his head is a banner reading _Merry Christmas!_ , but below is the rest of the phrase: _from White Jesus_.

Courfeyrac claps a hand over his mouth so he doesn’t spit out his drink, and Musichetta laughs so hard she starts crying, while Joly looks on, half-amused and half-concerned.

“Where did you even find it?” Feuilly asks.

“Op shop,” says Enjolras, shrugging.

“I’m dreaming of a white…Jesus…” Grantaire sings, and Joly sniggers.

Enjolras is asleep by the time Musichetta, Grantaire, and Courfeyrac have opened theirs. Musichetta’s is red and green and white horizontal stripes, with little bells sewn around the collar, from Courfeyrac. Grantaire’s, from Feuilly, has a shark wrapped in fairy lights on the front. Courfeyrac has ended up with Grantaire’s, first opened by Cosette, who blushed furiously: _Balls_.

“This is horrific and I love it,” says Cosette, as she unwraps her second parcel, this time from Joly.

The cream sweater is festooned with teddy bears wearing santa hats, each of them edged in glitter.

“Who’s this on from?” Eponine asks, tearing into a new parcel.

“Me,” says Bahorel, holding back a laugh.

“Bring it on,” she says, and rips open the wrapping.

The whole evening is starting to blur together as Grantaire downs another and another drink. Eponine’s sweater shows two embroided reindeer going at it. He may or may not have given it an imaginative title like _Rutting Reindeers, embroidery on knitted wool, circa 1977_ but he doesn’t know if he said that aloud or not.

Marius is wearing a sweater with dinosaurs on it. Grantaire isn’t sure if it was a gift one, or if he was already wearing it.

“Being last is well and good in theory,” Feuilly is saying now, frowning at the final parcel. “But should I steal and make it go on and on, or open this and finish it?”

Joly is having a quiet but fierce conversation with Bossuet, quiet enough that the music hinders any chance of knowing what it’s about.

Jehan looks upset, but Grantaire isn’t sure if he can stand up from the couch cushion he’s sitting on, his back to the wall.

Grantaire can’t remember adding traditional carols to the playlist, but he can hear the Kings College boys’ choir sings something about adoration. The tone color is slightly tinny thanks to the speakers.

Feuilly emerges in Grantaire’s periphery wearing a pale blue _Hoth, Sweet Hoth_ sweater, complete with storm troopers and AT-AT walkers, and so apparently did decide to end the game.

Grantaire finds himself in front of a bookshelf out in the hall, past where Enjolras came inside earlier, unsure of how he got there.

“R, you’re missing Mean Girls Christmas,” Bahorel says from the doorway.

Grantaire waves him off, but he doesn’t leave.

“Drink up,” Bahorel says, sidling up and switching his beer for water.

“Thanks,” he mutters

Grantaire sculls the glass, and snags the bottle back from Bahorel’s fist. He runs his fingers along the spines of the books. They’re mostly sci-fi, like the shelf near the fireplace, and some high fantasy, but Enjolras doesn’t strike him as a particular fan of Anne McCaffrey or H G Wells.

“You coming back inside?”

“In a bit. I need some quiet,” he says, and Bahorel, bless him, doesn’t push.

He can hear _Jingle Bell Rock_ still playing in the next room. Meanwhile, the bookcase is listing slightly to the left, and he takes it as a sign to sit down. Beer still clutched in his left hand, he peruses the shelves closest to the carpet. He should go back and check that Jehan’s okay.

“Found anything interesting?”

“ _Jesus_ , for the last time, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“It’s Enjolras, actually,” says Enjolras, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

Grantaire groans and covers his face with his free hand.

“You’re awake, then.”

“Clearly. Found anything interesting?” Enjolras asks, perusing the uppermost shelf.

“You tell me, it’s your house.”

“My aunt’s, actually,” he replies, pulling out an Orson Scott Card novel and inspecting the back cover.

“You don’t live with your parents?”

“I did until I left school,” he explains, swapping the novel for another one. “We were here way back when I was in elementary – that’s how I know Ferre – then we moved around a bit before setting in Indianapolis in time for my senior year.”

He pulls a face at the book in his hands and puts in back on the shelf.

“So, Chicago, wasn’t it?” Grantaire says, not really asking a question, but not daring to disrupt the possibility of a civil conversation.

“Mmhmm.” Enjolras is now looking at the shelf second from the top. “Then back again when I got into law here. I grew up in this house,” he adds. “Aunt Louise bought it from Mom and Dad when they left.”

“Huh,” says Grantaire, for want of something to contribute, and then, "oh my God, please tell me there are baby photos in this house."

“Er, I hope not. Oh, I didn’t mind these ones,” Enjolras says, frowning at a series with faded spines and stifling a yawn. “Probably Dad’s, actually.”

Grantaire sits back against the opposite wall of the hallway and watches him continue looking through the books. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything.

Enjolras frowns, plucking at the sleeve of his sweater with one hand.

“You alright?”

 _Lovesick_ , Grantaire doesn’t say.

“I might go get some water,” he says instead, as if it’s only the drink and not this conversation making his head spin.

Enjolras offers his hand for him to stand. He takes it, feeling as if fireworks have gone off inside his lungs.

 

<> 

 

“Jehan? Jehan – hey, what’s – ”

“I’m fine, shit, _shit_ , sorry.”

“Courf? Did you still want – oh, sorry.”

“Ferre, it’s nothing, it’s fine – ”

“It’s alright, it’s alright.” Laughter. “Come out after you’ve had a chat.”

“Shit, shit, _shit_.”

Jehan is crying.

“Hey, Jehan, sh, what’s wrong?”

It takes Jehan nearly a minute to answer. Courfeyrac says nothing.

“It’s s-stupid.”

Grantaire waits for Combeferre to close the kitchen door behind him, then shuffles over to hesitate at the door.

“You don’t have to tell me,” says Courfeyrac, gentle.

His voice is the most quiet Grantaire has ever heard. Several long seconds pass. Jehan takes a shuddering breath.

“You alright?” Courfeyrac asks.

Grantaire steps away from the door, back towards the kitchen, too.

 

<> 

 

In Grantaire’s absence from the sitting room, Musichetta and Bossuet have taken on the task of adding Walmart Christmas lights to every edge and surface of the house. Joly is directing their efforts by pointing his cane at various corners, but is clearly very tired.

“Just – ” a yawn, “ – over there somewhere. Who cares,” he mumbles.

“You alright?” Grantaire asks, flopping down onto the couch beside him.

Due to a sudden buzzing noise followed by utter darkness throughout the house, Joly doesn’t answer except for a yelp of fright.

There’s a clatter as the string of lights that had been strung across the mantel fall across the hearth.

“We’re alright, Joly,” says Musichetta.

Hers and Bossuet’s faces loom from the dark, silhouetted by the last of the burning coals.

“What the fuck?” Eponine says, from somewhere to Grantaire’s left.

“Probably a fuse,” calls Enjolras’ voice from the kitchen. “I’ll have to go outside and replace it.”

“I can do it,” says Gavroche, his face now illuminated by the faint glow of his phone screen.

He’s seventeen, but he looks much older when he isn’t laughing. Grantaire is reminded, not for the first time, of what the Thernardiers have seen.

Enjolras reenters, also holding his phone aloft.

“If you can,” he says to Gavroche.

He nods.

“I’ll show you the fuse box.”

They’re reacquainted with the wonders of electric light a moment later, and Gavroche is the hero of the hour. Eponine looks slightly glassy-eyed as they crowd around to heap drunken congratulations on her brother.

“Can’t I please – ”

“Fine,” she says. “But just the one,” she adds sharply, as he crows in victory and snags a beer from Bahorel.

 

<> 

 

Combeferre is laughing. The room has started spinning again. Grantaire finds himself back on the couch beside Joly, who is very white in the face.

“No offense, you don’t look so great,” he says, frowning.

“Speak for yourself,” says Joly, but he sounds pained. “We’re going to leave soon, I think.”

Musichetta and Bossuet are making out beside the fireplace.

“Bathroom,” Joly mutters, and untangles himself from his blanket.

He attempts to make a beeline for the hallway, narrowly avoiding Bahorel and Feuilly, who are now engaged in a stumbling waltz. A few minutes later he’s back, cheeks flushed, eyes reddened, but paler than before.

“Hey, lie down,” Grantaire says, patting the cushions beside him.

Joly needs no second invitation. Grantaire leaves him burrowing back into the couch and goes to break up Musichetta and Bahorel’s extended kiss.

“Sorry, Bossuet, Chetta –” he prods them both in the shoulder and they pull away from each other, looking mildly put out. “Joly’s been vomiting. Chetta, did you say you could drive him home?”

She nods.

“I think he didn’t want to ruin anyone else’s night,” Grantaire adds.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” says Musichetta, frowning slightly. “Wish he’d said something earlier.”

“Well, he kind of didn’t want to come at all, remember, babe?” Bossuet says.

“True. I’ll take him home then come back?”

“Alright. Drive safe,” he says, pressing a kiss to her cheek, then she’s across the room at Joly’s side in mere seconds.

“Tell Enjolras thanks from Joly,” she calls across to Bossuet, who salutes.

One arm around Joly’s shoulders, she lets him lean on her as they leave.

“Time for dancing!” Courfeyrac bellows some minutes later, dragging a flushed Jehan by the hand from the corridor.

“Oho,” says Feuilly, looking at their joint hands.

Bahorel, standing beside him, raises a meaningful eyebrow at them both.

“Fuck off,” Jehan says, breathy, but looks ecstatic.

“What’re the chances of angry neighbors if we turn up music?” Eponine asks.

“Slim to none. Most of them are away, I think.”

“Good, you can learn to dance,” Grantaire hears himself saying.

“I need a drink first,” Enjolras replies, with that twisted corner of his mouth that could be mockery or derision. (Or amusement)

He retreats to the kitchen. When he doesn’t reemerge after a moment or two, Grantaire follows. He finds him and Comebeferre engaged in a muttered argument; the latter is clearly concerned, the former exhausted.

"You _can_ ask everyone to leave, you know."

Enjolras shakes his head. His face is in shadow, and the two of them are squashed into the far corner of the room. Combeferre’s eyes are catching the lights from the Christmas tree in the next room.

"Told them anyone could stay the night who wanted or needed to,” Enjolras says.

It sounds as if every word is an effort.

"People will manage if you're not up to it," says Combeferre.

"I'm _fine_."

“Uh,” says Grantaire, to announce his presence.

It occurs to him that a. he isn't meant to hear this conversation, and b. the tremor in Enjolras' voice that he's heard over these last months, on multiple occasions, is his attempt not to cry.

“Sorry,” Combeferre looks a little sheepish, but mostly still concerned. “Can we have a minute, R?”

Grantaire nods, and retreats to the hallway, only to find that the kitchen echoes. It takes about twenty seconds for Grantaire to realize what he can hear, and another ten to leave the hallway and return to the rest of the ABC. He demands they all learn to waltz, and pretends he hasn't heard Enjolras crying.

He pairs everyone into boys and girls – “Embrace the heteronormativity of the ballet world, everyone! Yes, Bahorel, you can be a woman if you want.” – and shows them how to hold each other's waists and shoulders and hands. They twirl around each other, awkward and out of time, but Combeferre and Eponine are laughing so hard they're teary-eyed, and Cosette and Marius are so romantic Grantaire has to look away.

The song changes, and while Bahorel and Feuilly join the girls, Bossuet twirls Marius, and Courfeyrac drags Combeferre to join him and Jehan. They have been clutching each other's hands and grinning widely at everything rather than joining in. They are both rather drunk.

“Is it still compulsory?” asks a low voice.

Enjolras has reemerged from the kitchen as if he wasn’t sobbing ten minutes ago. He’s dry-eyed, but the exhaustion hangs on him like a weighted blanket.

“Sure,” Grantaire says, shrugging and avoiding eye contact. “Girl or boy?”

Enjolras is far taller than him, and frowning.

“It’s not a question of social justice,” Grantaire can’t help but say, but he’s panicking. “Okay, okay, you’re a boy because you’re taller. Here.”

Enjolras’ right hand is light against Grantaire’s waist.

“And then these hands link together,” he mutters, and taking Enjolras’ left in his right, “and we draw a box with our feet. You lead; you’re the gentleman.”

“I – what? Right,” says Enjolras, forehead still creased as he frowns down at their feet. “Sorry in advance for stepping on your toes.”

“In three,” Grantaire murmurs, but gives up on trying to make this an actual waltz.

Enjolras wasn’t lying about his lack of coordination, but there’s something about him that suggests grace, or perhaps regal ancestry. His sweater is wine red and dark against his face, and the smudges under his eyes somehow fail to make him look any less imposing. Grantaire laughs.

“What?” Enjolras asks, waspish.

“Loosen up, it’s Christmas.”

“The Christmas season is meaningless outside of its religious value,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes.

Grantaire tries to twirl him in a circle, mocking, and Enjolras presses his lips together.

“I’m Catholic, no need to mock,” Grantaire says, grinning.

The room is lurching from side to side. He can’t tell if anyone else can see how off-balance he feels.

“Sorry,” says Enjolras, looking past him.

Grantaire can’t help but notice that they haven’t made eye contact all evening.

“You alright?” he asks.

Enjolras lets go of Grantaire’s hand. His other hand is still frozen against his waist.

“Fine,” he says, very guarded. “Why?”

“Migraine or something?”

Enjolras shifts slightly, and turns to stare at him properly. Grantaire always forgets what eye contact with him is like.

“I – no,” he grits out.

“You been drinking, Apollo? That stutter is back,” Grantaire hears himself say.

“I’m sober,” he says coldly. The implied _unlike you_ is nearly audible over the music. “And I’ve had a stutter since – childhood.”

They manage several more seconds of awkward close contact before Grantaire pulls away and shoves Marius into his place.

“Have a new partner. I need another drink,” he says, and ducks into the kitchen before Enjolras can comment on his drinking.

Leaning against the bench, he pours himself – horror of horrors – a glass of water. He downs it, clamps a hand to his mouth as it briefly threatens to come back up, and stares at his reflection in the darkened window as his stomach settles. It’s been doing backflips since Enjolras’ reemergence from the kitchen, though from sympathy, nerves, or anxiety, Grantaire can’t say. He presses his hand to where Enjolras’ had been against his waist. He can’t really breathe for a moment.

Soon after midnight, the doorbell rings and Valjean is let inside to collect Cosette and Marius. Grantaire ducks into the bathroom and refuses to come out even when Courfeyrac threatens murder.

“I cannot, I repeat _cannot_ be seen this drunk by my boss,” he insists halfheartedly, from his spot perched on the closed lid of the toilet.

He pulls a face at himself in the mirror, and feels his stomach hitch.

“You’ve been worse than this at work,” Eponine calls through the keyhole.

“Shut up,” he says back, and doesn’t say another word until Valjean is safely out the door with his daughter and probable future son-in-law.

He sees Combeferre and a reluctant Enjolras pulled into dancing a trio with Courfeyrac somewhat later, before he’s back in the bathroom emptying his guts, the edges of his vision darkening.

Between retching he rests his face against the cool tiles of the wall, curled up beside the toilet. Someone knocks on the door and he manages a groan before pulling himself to his knees to cough and gag again. His stomach feels knotted.

“R?”

It’s Jehan calling from the other side of the door.

“Ugh,” he manages between waves of nausea.

“If you don’t say something in English in the next few seconds I’m coming in,” Jehan says, shaky.

There’s a lump in Grantaire’s throat that isn’t from vomiting. He has to duck his head into the toilet bowl just as Jehan pushes the door open.

“Is it bad?” he asks, grim, dropping down beside him as Grantaire looks up, bleary-eyed.

“Not – great,” says Grantaire, breathing hard.

“How much?”

“I – you okay?”

Jehan glares at him, lips thin. His eyes are very bright.

“Don’t know,” Grantaire says, looking away. “Not more than twenty.”

Jehan exhales beside him, like static in his ear.

“Thank you,” his friend says quietly, and then, “no, I’m not, but now is not the time.”

Grantaire rinses his mouth and stumble back to the living room with Jehan to find Musichetta back again, and several of the others in various stages of setting up camp for the night.

“There are three beds in the guest room, past the study,” Enjolras is saying to Feuilly, who calls shotgun on one of them.

Eponine and Gavroche take the other two, and the rest of them start settling down on couches. Grantaire heads to the kitchen and fills a glass with water. His stomach has stopped threatening bile, but everything is still very fuzzy around the edges. He turns off the tap and grips the edge of the bench hard to stop himself swaying.

Combeferre slips into the room to stand beside him.

“Is Enjolras okay,” Grantaire half-asks, half-slurs.

“Jehan says you’ve been sick. Do you need anything?”

“Jehan’s really upset.”

Grantaire’s knuckles are white against the bench.

“Not about this,” Combeferre replies, so gentle.

“Sorry, I’m very – ”

He waves one hand sloppily, as if to somehow illustrate how far gone he is.

“Come find somewhere to sleep,” says Combeferre.

He doesn’t answer. The lump in his throat is back.

Combeferre reaches across with his hand and presses it into Grantaire’s shoulder. It’s warm and heavy and comforting for a second that stretches out like a lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and all that - sorry this chapter was a few days later than I planned!
> 
> You’ll find a lot of the Christmas sweaters on the first page of a google search, and let me tell you, it’s very entertaining. The one Grantaire buys/Courfeyrac receives is here. The one Feuilly buys/Grantaire receives is based on this
> 
> I honestly can’t be bothered to link the rest of them, but if you want any of the specifics, let me know, and I can send you the necessary URL/s, or tell you where I got the ideas.
> 
> My apologies for the promise of romance remaining unrealized for our main characters. Patience, dear readers.
> 
> Next chapter probably won’t be until towards the end of January, sorry.
> 
> Comments/kudos/feedback all appreciated, as usual :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Happy birthday,” says Enjolras, waspish, and _thwacks_ a book down on the bar top.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Courfeyrac’s smoking habits, homophobic comments, an actual fight, and an actual panic attack. Additional points to expect in this chapter are Enjolras being bad at apologies, and Grantaire being bad at dealing with a crush (as per usual). There is also a David Bowie reference and another Müller quote, if you feel like finding them.

Much later, someone has left the music on. Grantaire doesn’t remember being put to bed, but everything is soft and warm. He lets the music wash over him, drowning out the static, falls asleep, and wakes up.

Disoriented, he blinks at the cream-colored ceiling for what could be anywhere between a minute and half an hour before he registers than he needs to pee. Dreaming the process of falling asleep isn’t something he’s missed from his more consistent drunken escapades. He shuffles out of the room.

It turns out that the guest room is opposite a bathroom, so he makes use of it before going back into the bedroom and retrieving the pair of socks he doesn’t remember taking off last night. He also apparently changed into old hockey shorts – different from the ones he’s been wearing to and from dance – and a t-shirt. Not bothering with trying to remember when this happened, he pulls on the socks and ventures back out into the hallway.

Downstairs he finds most of the others sleep-tousled but awake, though Eponine and Gavroche are yet to emerge.

“Ferre and Courf are making coffee,” Bahorel manages between yawning, sandwiched between Bossuet and Musichetta on the couch.

“Gods among men,” Grantaire says, voice hoarse, and heads to the kitchen.

Combeferre hands him a mug as soon as he walks through the doorway.

“Sleep alright?”

The unspoken question beneath it remains mercifully unsaid.

“Yeah. The guest bed is…very soft? For a guest bed?”

“I thought you slept in Enjolras’ room,” Courfeyrac says, frowning into the depths of the fridge.

“I – wait, _what_.”

“Bingo,” Enjolras murmurs.

He’s slumped at the kitchen table cradling a mug of coffee, wearing sweatpants and the red sweater. For fuck’s sake, Grantaire has even been trying not to stare.

“Er, where – ”

“Spare couch,” says Enjolras. “You were – Ferre thought you needed proper sleep.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire manages.

Now that he thinks back, the room looked as if someone lived there. No one decorates their guest room with posters and postcards. No one puts a pinboard beside the door, or has shelves overflowing with books trailing post-it notes, or leaves several coats hooked to the back of the door.

Enjolras shrugs, and gulps down the rest of his coffee.

Around half an hour later they’ve all relocated into the sitting room. Gavroche is still sleeping, but Eponine has planted herself on one of the makeshift beds, wrapped in a duvet. Grantaire feels like he’s coming down with a cold rather than nursing a hangover. His sinuses feel puffy, and his eyes are aching in their sockets.

“So,” says Bahorel, after a moment of silence. “Good hustle.”

Jehan snorts into his coffee and determinedly avoids eye contact with everyone. Grantaire takes note of Courfeyrac’s silence.

Later, when he’s home again with Jehan and Feuilly, Grantaire finds an email from Dr Hucheloup detailing teaching opportunities over the winter break. He shoots back a reply to her – the Musain is closed til January 12th and he’s short on drinking money – then pulls up Facebook.

Bossuet and Chetta have already uploaded pictures from the night, though he can’t personally recall either of them taking photos. Gavroche has managed to pull a creepy face in the background of nearly every shot. His sister is flipping the bird in all fourteen pictures tagged _Eponine Rose_. Joly’s nausea can be tracked over the night in accordance with how drunk everyone else looks. Somehow Grantaire has escaped all but three pictures.

The first is cringe-worthy, though he’ll leave it up for Jehan’s sake, who looks overjoyed beside him on the couch, Courfeyrac on his other side. Each of them are grinning at the camera and mostly sober.

“There’s a picture of you and Cour – some others from last night. Profile picture material,” he says to Jehan, who is lying on the couch pretending to watch How I Met Your Mother reruns, and ignoring Grantaire.

In the second, Grantaire’s only partially in shot beside Eponine and Chetta, apparently deep in discussion, while Feuilly and Bahorel pose for a crooked selfie beside them.

Grantaire will have to find out who took the third picture and thank them before setting them alight. He assumes it to have been Bossuet behind the phone-camera, if only because the entire shot is at a forty-five degree angle. Enjolras has his hand on Grantaire’s waist, the corner of his mouth twisted towards the camera. Hating himself, Grantaire covers the left half of his screen with one hand. If it wasn’t for Cosette and Eponine laughing, half out of shot on the other side of the picture, it would look like Enjolras was smiling at him.

 

<> 

 

**sent / 11.15am**

_Berry Melated Christmas_

**Nice Rac / 11.40am**

_it’s 2 days after xmas nd ur telling me ur still drunk?_

**Nice Rac / 11.41am**

_i shud clarify, that wsnt meant 2 be judgmentl but srsly R_

**sent / 11.49am**

_I send spoonerisms and you think I’m drunk? who do you think I am_

**sent / 11.50am**

_fair call, tho – dw, I’m reasonably with it today. You rehearsing atm?_

**Nice Rac / 11.56am**

_R U VISITING CAMPUS pls say yes can we get coffee_

**sent / 12.02pm**

_i’ll take that as a yes_

**Nice Rac / 12.23pm**

_still going but ive got a break @2_

**sent / 12.31pm**

_meet you at stage door babe_

“My savior,” Courfeyrac says, nearly colliding with Grantaire as he barrels out of stage door right on two o’clock.

“Real talk, “ says Grantaire, handing over a coffee cup, “are the dressing rooms still as gross and sweaty as last year?”

Courfeyrac half-shrugs, laughing.

“Theater one is still the worst out of the three,” he says.

“All those dance majors messing it up,” Grantaire deadpans.

“You know it.”

Someone calls Courfeyrac a fag as they walk past a group of high school students clearly on campus for a seminar. Effortless, he passes Grantaire his phone to free his hand and flips them the bird.

“Stop bisexual erasure,” Grantaire mutters sarcastically, once they’ve passed, handing the phone back.

“Fag,” says Courfeyrac, thoughtful, and points to himself. “Half-fag?”

He points at Grantaire, who pulls a face.

“Sorry,” his friend says, and then, “do you mind?”

When Grantaire shakes his head, Courfeyrac lights a cigarette and sits down on a low brick wall. They’ve made their way outside the stifling dramatic arts building and into the crisp snow. Sunlight is shining bravely into the courtyard, with little effect.

“How are rehearsals?”

“Fine, fine,” Courfeyrac says, waving a hand and scattering ash everywhere. “Müller was a real oddball, though.”

“I was Hamlet,” says Grantaire, grinning.

“It’s like one of those emphasis puzzles. I _was_ Hamlet.”

“I was _Hamlet_.”

“Well, R, _I_ was – ”

“ – going to ask you a question,” Grantaire says, hurriedly, like he’s about to lose his nerve, which he is.

“Ask away.”

He turns his head to blow smoke in the other direction, but Grantaire can smell the tobacco he used to smoke, too, and it’s not helping his concentration.

“You into Jehan?”

It’s a simple sentence. Not even correct. At least it was easy to get out without a stutter. He’s not Enjolras, after all, even if only because he’s fucking terrified rather than nursing some kind of actual problem. His brain is on autopilot. Courfeyrac might have already answered.

“Hm?”

Fuck.

“Are you, y’know, do you like Jehan?”

For a whole second, Courfeyrac’s face is blank. Grantaire is ready to bear the unexpected news back to his flatmate, and also perhaps slap him across the face for the mess at Enjolras’ place, but he stops himself in time.

“He’s so fucking cute,” he says, and grins.

He takes a drag. Grantaire wonders how he’s mean to keep the conversation going.

“Pity he doesn’t think the same,” says Courfeyrac, just as Grantaire is about to stumble into a conversational minefield.

“Wait, what?”

“At Enjolras’,” he says, blowing more smoke over his shoulder. “He was upset about some stuff and we got talking. He kissed me.”

“…I fail to see how that means he doesn’t feel the same.”

Courfeyrac has the grace to look a little sheepish.

“I was very drunk.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“So was Jehan.” He takes another drag. “He looked so shocked, afterwards.”

Grantaire is thankful for perhaps the first time in his life that no one can stop Courfeyrac mid-story. He is, apparently, warming to the tale.

“So, Jehan was upset, right? I talk to him, we sort that out, he’s okay, he kisses me, I kiss back, and then we all come out to dance, yeah?”

Grantaire pulls a face.

“You were a lovely instructor,” says Courfeyrac, gracious.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

It’s a mark of their friendship that Courfeyrac only falters for a second before he continues.

“Anyway, we’re all dancing. It’s great. _We like dancing and we look divine_ , etcetera, etcetera. The music changes, and I lean in to kiss him again, and he suddenly looks at me funny, and I pull away, and he just – ”

He takes another drag and shrugs.

“He looked pretty horrified,” Courfeyrac says finally, and stubs out the cigarette against the brickwork.

 

<> 

 

“What even happened before Christmas?” asks Feuilly a few days later.

Grantaire is skulking in his room, alternating between sketching and staring at the wall.

“We were drunk,” says Jehan.

His voice is dull, as if he temporarily lost use of it and only just got it back. Both he and Feuilly are in the kitchen, presumably making dinner. Grantaire should definitely go out and offer to help. He takes a swig of the red wine on his desk. Maybe later.

“Care to elaborate?”

“We kissed. He realized he was drunk and making bad decisions.”

Grantaire reckons he should get a medal for resisting the urge to break a wine bottle over his friends’ heads.

 

<> 

 

Cosette has somehow convinced Marius to go on some snow trip with her and her father, even though Valjean terrifies him. By the time New Year’s Eve rolls around, Feuilly has left to visit his foster parents. Jehan has somehow become brave enough to go out Properly with Combeferre, Bossuet, Musichetta, and Courfeyrac. Alcohol might have been involved, but Grantaire stays well and truly out of the way as he flits about the flat, combing his hair half-flat forty times and frowning over his choice of scarf and jacket.

It’s officially fucking freezing, according to Standard East Coast Thermostatography, and Grantaire has no desire to go out when his alcohol stash has started to ressemble a self-sufficient cellar. He calls Eponine, who says she’ll bring Gavroche, and then Bahorel and Joly.

For a grand total of thirty seconds it’s great, until Bahorel opens his mouth.

“Is Enjolras going out with the others, then?”

“I get the impression it’s not really his scene,” Joly says vaguely, and resumes stirring a pot of pasta on the stove and humming snatches of carols.

He turned up early and insisted they all eat a real meal if they planned to drink their way into the new year.

“Ferre’s basically his best friend, though, isn’t he?” Gavroche asks.

Eponine shrugs. Her brother is probably right.

Grantaire is starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable about his selective guest list. Enjolras is, more likely than not, home on his own. Sure, the guy basically swooped in and took over his friendship group, but Grantaire’s also pretty sure that Enjolras hasn’t had any spare time between internship work, study, and the ABC to be making any other distinct groups of friends. It feels like a real dick move, on this side of a glass or two, not to have at least asked him along.

There is of course the minor issue of the fucking crush that will not just go away. Grantaire attempts a few seconds of self-reassurance, telling himself that inviting an angel to one’s new year celebrations is a recipe for disaster of one kind or another.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be cool with it, but I invited him,” Bahorel says, and _wait what_.

Grantaire contents himself with nearly choking on his drink as Bahorel keeps talking.

“What with how you feel about him and all,” he says.

Grantaire frowns at the dingy carpet. Eponine and Gavroche are helping Joly with pasta and therefore blessedly unaware of the conversation currently wreaking havoc in the corner of the flat.

“Er – ”

“’S fucking obvious, man,” Bahorel says, cheerful, and slugs him in the shoulder. “You’re cool, I got you.”

“Uh. What do you – ”

“I asked him because I’m a sucker for fanning the flames of conflict,” he says, still grinning.

“Fuck.”

“Well, maybe, man. Point is, he said he wasn’t feeling great and didn’t want to intrude so like – ” Bahorel makes an extraordinarily-vague set of hand gestures the meaning of which Grantaire can only guess, “ – chill. He’s staying home.”

Rather than attempt to process any of the conversation, Grantaire downs a bottle of Daniels over the course of an hour and remembers very little else when he wakes in the morning.

Habit dictates that he check his phone for misdemeanors, and his heart nearly stops at Enjolras’ name in little lights across the top of his screen. He opens the message and scrolls up to his initial message.

**sent / 4.24am**

_Bahorel said u wre feeling shitty/that sucks. Hap py new year all the same_

**Apollo / 4.27am**

_Thanks. You too._

“Fuck,” he says aloud.

 

<> 

 

“How was your new year in the end?” is what he asks when he walks into Enjolras on the main walkway outside Biggs, knee-deep in snow, because apparently his brain hates him more than usual, lately.

Enjolras frowns. He’s balancing three folders in one arm, the other one hunched in an attempt to keep his messenger bag on his shoulder. In an unsurprising turn of events, it doesn’t look as if he’s had a holiday at all.

“Stayed in,” he says. “Do you want coffee?”

 _I would love a coffee with you, because that would constitute a date_ , Grantaire doesn’t say.

“I’ve got to get back to class in five, but takeout, for sure.”

“Class?” he asks, then “thanks,” as Grantaire offers a free hand to carry a folder or two.

“Teaching,” he grunts. “Hucheloup lets older students take some of the winter classes for elementary and middle school kids.”

For some reason Enjolras doesn’t butt in as Grantaire rambles for the five minutes it takes to head inside and line up at the café.

“Why’re you on campus?” he asks, as they stop for Enjolras to cram his folders back in his bag.

“Studying in an empty house is fucking creepy,” he says, frowning at his mess of papers and folders.

Grantaire can’t help but laugh, and Enjolras looks bemused. His hair is gold against the collar of his jacket.

“What?”

“I – the delivery, I don’t know. You were so serious.”

“…I fail to see how that’s surprising, R,” he says, but he’s half-smiling as he pulls out a book to make room for the last folder.

Grantaire half-waves as he makes to leave.

“Well, see you on Tuesd – at the ABC,” he amends, and is careful not to acknowledge the sudden strain in the atmosphere. “You’ll have to take all your own notes, Apollo.”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras says, but it’s automatic, and he doesn’t miss the way the corner of his mouth turns down, like a grimace, like suppressing his relief that he won’t have to sit through another class with Grantaire again.

 

<> 

 

“Happy birthday!”

Grantaire feels the parcel drop into his lap before he sees it, halfway through a sculling contest with Bahorel, which they only tie because Bossuet isn’t moderating properly, thank you very much.

“I – it’s not – oh, thanks, Joly.”

Joly grins. He’s been giving him a birthday present every January since Grantaire refused to tell them his birthday way back in first year. Joly would do anything to find out the real date.

“Hey, this is – ” Grantaire feels his voice going, and frowns hard at the book in his hands. He isn’t normally so emotional about the birthday thing. “Thanks.”

It’s a daily journal with drawing prompts and is, as such, perfect. He waves off the general chorus of _happy birthday_ from those who’ve heard Joly, and definitely doesn’t take it personally when Enjolras stays silent.

“Thanks,” he says again, and tries to hand Joly ten dollars. “Buy yourself a drink.”

“It’s a _gift_ , R,” says his friend, but his voice is gentle, and Grantaire has to leave this conversation before his voice gives out entirely.

“Fine, fine, a round, then,” he manages, and stands, leaving the book on the coffee table.

When he gets back to their corner of the Musain, balancing two jugs and a stack of glasses, Combeferre has arrived and settled himself between Eponine and Enjolras. Grantaire bites back a comment, but makes eye contact with Eponine, who looks away almost straight away. He doesn’t look at Enjolras, who seems to be attempting to bore a hole in the side of his head.

“Sorry I’m late. Want to start?”

“Thanks, Ferre. Is that alright with everyone? I’ve got to wrap up early, so I just wanted to propose something, and open the floor for any ideas this new year,” says Enjolras.

He’s speaking quickly, one knee bouncing absently against the low table and making the jugs of beer twitch slightly.

“Let’s get a list of project ideas first,” says Combeferre, tapping at his laptop. “We can set a time limit, get through anyone with an idea, then you can rattle off your idea before you leave. Feuilly?”

“Along the lines of Joly’s thing,” he says, “can we put together something about accessibility across campus?”

Combeferre nods, frowning at his screen.

“I’ve been paying a lot more attention to, uh, disability services and stuff,” Feuilly adds. “I – there’s a lot of problems with the system, and I’m sure I could write a list just pertaining to the issues I’ve had, never mind anyone else.”

“Are you happy to write that up?” Enjolras asks.

“Sure can.”

“I’ll write one too,” says Joly, grimacing. “There’s a lot wrong with both the mental and physical health services in their own right, never mind the educational accessibility schemes.”

Grantaire is determined to ignore Jehan, who stiffens in the seat on his left, and almost turns to look at him.

“You might have to treat them all as separate causes,” he hears himself say.

“What do you mean?” Cosette asks. “They’re all affecting student wellbeing and performance.”

“No, R has a fair point,” says Marius slowly.

“The health system is one thing,” Grantaire rolls his eyes for dramatic effect, and coaxes a laugh from Courfeyrac, “but you can’t fight the university on how they deliver it. Health stuff is within the state, and sometimes federal, isn’t it? Accessibility schemes only go so far as campus is concerned.”

“Yep, you can’t treat the education funding in connection with accessibility stuff,” Marius continues.

“I don’t see why it can’t be part of one campaign,” Enjolras says, frowning.

“Sure, if you want to change the world all at once,” says Grantaire scathingly.

“R,” says Combeferre, but he ignores it.

“Look, you can keep it as one of your projects all lumped together,” Grantaire says, “but you can’t honestly expect anyone to pay attention to a ten-point plan. The most you’re going to get is some kind of reaction to free food, or maybe a handful of token signatures from people who can’t resist your good looks and philosophizing.”

Enjolras frowns, mouth half-open, then shakes his head.

“Let’s just get everything down on a list,” says Combeferre, with the air of a disgruntled parent.

After making the rounds – Bahorel wants to petition campus food stores not to stock palm oil products, Eponine suggests a free breakfast program with an expression that dares anyone to argue, and Jehan thinks they should run some kind of fundraiser to help their projects along – Enjolras takes the floor, and Grantaire stares at the floorboards between his feet.

“I was actually going to take the time to put together a presentation or something, but time got away,” he is saying. “Anyway, I wanted to suggest we stage a protest.”

In the following surge of commentary – _what? really? which cause?_ – Grantaire looks up as Enjolras is turned towards Marius, halfway towards a smile. The purplish scar on his temple has faded to a dull pink.

“I didn’t have a topic in mind,” he says over the hubbub, and everyone turns to listen once more. “It’s the best way to get the ABC into the campus consciousness.”

“ _Un_ consciousness,” Grantaire spits, before he can stop himself.

Enjolras’ mouth thins.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, just let me get this straight.” He mock-shifts in his seat and steeples his fingers. “You, the only member of the ABC having already experienced physical violence as a direct result of your involvement, you, of all people, want to stage a protest which will, without a doubt, in no uncertainty, lead to more of the same?”

“I’m not asking anyone to be there who isn’t willing to take a risk, and anyone who steps out of physical involvement will be seen as no less,” Enjolras snaps.

“So if I pull out and say _count me out_ , you’ll treat me the same way you treat your precious friends?”

“What?”

Grantaire scoffs. He should have known.

“My apologies, dear leader, for assuming myself as a member of the group to be even near on par with the rest of your merry gang.”

He takes a bow from the waist, still seated.

“That’s not – R, what are you – ”

“You got a concussion after campus gala, for fuck’s sake,” Grantaire says. “You really are slower than I’m led to believe.”

“Can we maybe leave the personal jibes out of the equation?” asks Combeferre quietly.

“You got concussion?” Marius asks, because, bless him, he doesn’t pay attention to anything sometimes.

Enjolras ignores both of them.

“Is it your sole purpose to tear anything I suggest to shreds?”

Grantaire can feel his chest tightening, a fist clenched around his entire ribcage.

“It is if it’s putting people in danger for some delusional cause. How is that difficult to understand?”

“What happened to not caring?”

Enjolras’ eyes are steely, unflinching.

 _I’m not arguing against the cause_ , he could say. _I don’t want to lend you a shirt to get blood all over again. I don’t want anyone getting hurt_.

“Be nice, it’s my _birthday_ , after all,” he says, forcing a smile.

“Argue all you like in class, or wherever else,” Enjolras says, a little too loudly. “This is meant to be a _meeting_. If you’re not going to be part of it, why are you still here?”

Bizarrely, Grantaire realizes they’re both standing, glaring at each other from either end of the Musain coffee table. It’s not a movie, so none of the others are paying that much attention anymore. _Another fight, another minor interruption_ , they must be thinking. From across the table, Enjolras draws himself to his full height. Grantaire is breathing hard, as if he’s run a marathon. This time feels different.

“Is that a formal request for me to leave?”

Grantaire hears himself ask the question as if from a distance. The buzzing in his ears is very loud.

“If you’re here to argue and not to help, then – ”

Jehan definitely says something, but Grantaire doesn’t catch it.

“ – don’t understand why you’d stay. What’s the point of drinking your way through an argument if – ”

“Let’s leave the alcoholism jokes to me, Apollo,” he grits out.

Enjolras halts mid-sentence. _Inhale. Exhale_.

“That wasn’t meant to be a jibe,” he says quickly. “But we’re trying to achieve something here – ”

“Fuck, I get it, alright,” Grantaire spits. “I’ll get out.”

He slams his empty glass on the table, turns on his heel, and leaves.

Less than a minute later his phone buzzes in his pocket, which he ignores. When it happens twice more, and won’t stop Grantaire pulls out his phone to a third attempt at a call from Courfeyrac.

“Hi,” he says, guarded.

“Hey,” says Courfeyrac, cursory, then “you alright?”

Grantaire is very glad this conversation is happening over the phone.

“Sure. Fine and dandy.”

“R.”

He sighs into the phone and hears the static crackle at the other end.

“Look, it’s not a big deal. We fight. Everyone knows. Etcetera, etcetera,” he says. “I was just a bit done with it this time.”

He concentrates on the marks his shoes are leaving in the slushy snow on the sidewalk. Unhelpfully, Enjolras’ face keeps swimming into view, eyebrows drawn into a scowl, eyes bright.

 _Why are you still here?_ he says.

“Okay,” says Courfeyrac, sounding uncertain. “Meeting’s over now, anyway. Enjolras and Combeferre left almost straight away. You can come back just to hang out with everyone, if you like.”

“And have to explain the whole thing even though there’s nothing to explain? Thanks, Courf, but I’ll probably just head to Corinthe then home.”

“O…kay,” Courfeyrac says again, guarded, but hangs up.

Grantaire doesn’t go to Corinthe, but heads home and stares at sections of his independent project without really adding to them. It doesn’t help that their subject matter feels a little tainted now.

The only portion of the work he hasn’t made a proper start on is his own self-portrait. By merit of staying on Mabeuf’s good side, he managed to get his hands on a large sheet of mirror glass. This is meant to be where his portrait will go.

“The idea, um, well, so for curatorship, the audience sits in front of where I am in the picture. My outline is there, but they can see themselves sitting where I am, within the fresco. Does that make sense?”

Mabeuf had nodded slowly and said nothing. The next day, an email in his inbox had come through the following day to say the mirror had been ordered.

Grantaire isn’t even sure if he wants to do the whole project anymore, if only because he made the mistake of showing the half-finished product to Eponine, who then told everyone he was going to have an art show at the beginning of summer.

He makes a mental note to ‘forget’ about inviting everyone until the exhibition is over.

 

<> 

 

“R?”

Grantaire resurfaces from the college website and looks up. He’s been trying to find a dance subject for this semester that isn’t going to ruin him, with little success.

“What’s up?”  
Jehan throws himself onto the bed beside him.

“Finally done,” he says, and pushes Grantaire’s laptop away to make room for his own. On the screen, a teal-and-white page proclaims itself to be Jehan’s writing blog. “What do you think?”

“Objectively, I hate the color teal,” Grantaire says.

Jehan pouts.

“It looks good, honestly,” he amends, grinning.

He scrolls through the posts. Each one has a title, with a few sentences about it, before the poem in question is typed out. He reads through a few of them as Jehan watches, tentative.

“So, what’s the plan?”

Jehan chews on his lip.

“I’ll write an application for the paper,” he says.

Grantaire scrolls further.

“I’m going to send off to a few independent places as well. I’m kind of hoping it’ll give me something to look forward to, you know, on top of study.”

Jehan fidgets with the corner of Grantaire’s duvet.

“Might be good, if you can get published, so you can talk to your parents about it, too?”

He doesn’t look up, but a smile creeps onto Jehan’s face.

“That’s the plan.”

<> 

 

Grantaire is behind the bar the following Wednesday when he sees Enjolras. They haven’t crossed paths since the argument last Thursday, but he makes a beeline to where Grantaire is standing, wiping out a beer glass and looking anywhere but at him.

“Happy birthday,” says Enjolras, waspish, and _thwacks_ a book down on the bar top.

It’s Joly’s present.

“Uh,” Grantaire says eloquently.

“And sorry about last week.”

“Did Combeferre or someone tell you to say that?” he asks, trying to sound casual as he tucks the book into his wide apron pocket.

“I – ” Enjolras cuts off, frustrated. “Yeah, Ferre said it was out of hand.”

Grantaire laughs in spite of himself.

“It was, though,” Enjolras adds, eyeing the bar top with single-minded intensity. “So. I’m – yeah, sorry.”

“I think Combeferre might have just wanted you to talk,” says Grantaire, frowning.

He bites his lip for half a second. Enjolras looks up, then away again, back at the bar.

“I wasn’t exactly spouting compliments,” he says.

Enjolras frowns.

“I can’t force people to care, though. It’s stupid, and it’s not the first time I’ve tried.”

The Musain doors open and let another fresh gaggle of students in from the snow.

“I’d better – ”

Grantaire gestures at the crowded bar, the beers, and Enjolras nods mutely.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, and leaves.

Grantaire can’t quite work out why he still feels so angry.

 

<> 

 

In the end the only class Grantaire can take is an advanced technique class and he’s pacing around the living room trying to come to terms with this when Feuilly gets home.

“You alright?”

Grantaire forces a laugh.

“Sure. Just angry about enrolments.”

“Dance?” Feuilly asks.

He nods. Feuilly makes a noise of sympathy, and disappears into his room. Grantaire resumes pacing.

On one hand, this is less of an issue than it could be. Floreal is taking the class, so he can no doubt approach her about special consideration, or something. The practical classes start next week, so he’ll only have a single seminar to catch up. The issue is in how he explains the special consideration required without sounding like a complete fuckup.

He frowns at the blank TV for a good half an hour before he resigns himself to calling Professor Simplice and leaving a message at her office.

_Hi, um, this is Grantaire, my student number’s 7952337. I’d like to make an appointment with Professor Simplice sometime this week. I’m available, uh, any time except, um, except Wednesday afternoon. An email is fine for the booking confirmation thing. Um, yeah. Thanks. Bye._

 

<> 

 

He gets an email the next morning asking him to come in at ten on Wednesday morning. It’s some kind of miracle that this doesn’t send him into panic then and there. By evening, he’s cradling several beers, parked on the couch until at least one in the morning, by which time he’s shaking from nerves and not from lack of drink.

“Who’s – oh, shit, I didn’t realize you were still up,” says Jehan from the doorway.

Grantaire grunts.

“I didn’t pick you as a Steven Moffat fan,” he adds.

The credits to an episode of Dr Who scroll hazily past. Jehan has materialized beside him, and sits, tentative, on the other end of the couch.

“You alright?”

Grantaire must have considered the question for a little too long, because Jehan starts gently collecting the bottles from the coffee table and drops them in the trash in the kitchen. When he comes back, Grantaire isn’t sure if he’s moved or not. He’s breathing a little too quickly.

“Grantaire.”

It’s too much effort to focus, to make eye contact, but he does it anyway, somehow. There’s a lump in his throat.

“Here,” says Jehan.

He forces a glass of water into Grantaire’s hands and doesn’t say a word until he’s downed it. The static in his ears is very loud. Jehan reaches for the TV remote and turns off the screen.

“Want to talk about it?”

Grantaire half-opens his mouth and closes it again. His voice feels stuck somewhere in his stomach, unreachable. He shakes his head. The beer tastes far too sour in his mouth. He feels sick.

“Do you want me to go?”

He shakes his head again. Jehan breathes in, out, in, out. Grantaire reminds himself somehow, amid the brain fog, that his friend is doing far more than he needs to, that he’ll never be able to repay his kindness.

“I’ll read,” he says, after a moment. “Stay there.”

He returns with a book that Grantaire will forget to ask the name of in the morning. Jehan curls up at the other end of the couch and reads aloud. His intonation is lurching, tired, but he keeps going until Grantaire’s breathing has settled, until he’s dozing against the couch cushions, until he’s okay.

When he wakes only an hour or two later, Jehan is still coiled at the other end of the couch, fast asleep. Grantaire finds the duvet from his friend’s room and drapes it over him before he turns down the thermostat and drags himself to his own bed, to sleep.

The greying ceiling is as uninviting as ever when he wakes for the _n_ th time with a jolt. His phone screen tells him it’s eight oh five. The flat is quiet. A headache creeps in behind his eyes as he stumbles about, finding clothes with minimal paint stains.

“Ugh,” he says aloud, and goes to find his toothbrush.

After dry-swallowing painkillers and filling a water bottle from the tap (for later, when his stomach feels less like the ocean, more like a lake, or something) he heads out to Musain and sits in the corner nursing tea until it gets to half past nine.

“Good morning,” the receptionist says, as he sidles in. “Grantaire, is it?”

He nods, and takes a seat.

“She’ll be with you in a few minutes, you’re just a bit early,” she says, smiling.

He nods again, feeling like a puppet.

Professor Simplice, when she steps out of her office to greet him, looks as severe as she did the first time he met her back in first year. She allows him a brief smile. He lets out a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding.

She doesn’t say much, and neither does he, but he walks out half an hour later clutching a letter addressed to Professor Floreal. He walks straight to Biggs and drops it into her pigeonhole, with a hastily-scrawled note:

_Prof. Floreal,_

_Enclosed is a letter from my psychologist regarding special considerations that would be appreciated for my enrolment in DT: Advanced Technique 3. Please let me know if there are any problems._

_Kind rgds,_

_Grantaire_

He heads to Musain and makes Eponine pour him a double Irish coffee before explaining anything.

“Right,” she says slowly, across the table from him on her break. “You think that’ll be okay?”

Valjean is still serving the late morning customers, whistling to himself. It’s cosy in the café, but outside the snow is swirling into piles across the sidewalk and roads. Grantaire isn’t looking forward to the walk home.

“I don’t really have a choice,” says Grantaire, staring into his cup. “I’m still too dependent.”

“Did Simplice suggest anything else?” Eponine asks.

“AA, of course,” he mutters. “But also just to cut down for now. See how I go.”

She hums, stirring her own coffee absently.

“So aside from the major performance, you can just film?”

“Anything I’m not present for, I can catch up that way, or go to one of the two other classes she takes. Simplice said she’s had similar things before for like, ED kids,” he says, very quiet. “Apparently Floreal is pretty good about it all.”

Eponine slugs him lightly in the arm.

“You’ll be alright,” she says, brisk. “I’d better get back.”

He nods, and drains his cup before standing. She does likewise, but not before making eye contact.

“Text me if you want, okay?”

He nods again, and tries for a smile.

 

<> 

 

Jehan and Feuilly come home from the meeting the next day in hysterics. Grantaire is freshly-showered and aching after Floreal’s first class, and has had his seventh drink of the day. He isn’t sure if she saw his letter, but she smiled at him when he got there, and that’s enough for now.

“How was it?” he asks, as Feuilly slumps down, nearly howling with laughter as he tries to untie his shoes.

“Fine, fine,” says Jehan, sniggering. “Feuilly just stacked it on the ice outside.”

“Twice,” Feuilly adds, tossing his shoes aside.

“The actual meeting we, uh, talked about the rally idea for a bit,” Jehan says.

He’s avoiding eye contact.

“Enjolras decided what he wants to protest yet? I mean, aside from everything,” Grantaire asks.

Without Enjolras in the room beside him, the memory of the argument is less painful. Feuilly chuckles.

“Still everything. I think the consensus was that the actual focus will be on student accessibilities, because that’ll cover a few main topics without being, ah, overwhelming.”

“But Enjolras reckons we should choose one thing to promote, as an action, so that if we hold another event later on, we can talk about whether or not it was achieved, and why,” says Jehan.

Grantaire half-shrugs, half-nods, and wanders into the kitchen to examine the contents of the fridge. He wonders how acceptable it would be to get twice-weekly updates on the meetings and never attend again. Too bad he can’t stay away that long anyway.

“So do you have to miss _every_ Monday?”

“Yep,” says Grantaire, voice echoing oddly near the crisper. “Class is five til seven most weeks, and til eight some of the time, too.”

He grabs two pre-sliced pieces of cheese and closes the fridge.

“Are there any pizza pockets left in the freezer?” asks Feuilly absently, unwinding a striped scarf from around his neck.

“I might have eaten them for lunch,” he replies around a mouthful of cheese.

“You’re the worst!” cries Feuilly.

“I would be if I were telling the truth,” says Grantaire, singsong, and opens the freezer to pull out the half-empty box of pizza pockets.

“The best,” Feuilly amends, and takes them from him. “Also, want to come out with me and Bahorel to that new place, Brick-a-Brack Bar, or whatever it’s called?”

“That’s the worst bar name I’ve ever heard,” says Jehan, pulling a face.

“Agreed,” says Grantaire. “But also yeah, sure. When?”

“Probably next week sometime. Bahorel says he’s drowning in work at the moment.”

“Mmhm, a’right,” he says, and starts on the second piece of gouda.

An hour or so later the three of them are crammed onto the couch in front of Jehan’s laptop watching old episodes of QI. Feuilly is trying to read an essay for class tomorrow, but keeps adding to Stephen Fry’s commentary. He’s only on the third page of the essay. Jehan is scribbling in a notebook, only half-watching the screen.

“Fry’s a national treasure,” mumbles Grantaire, sliding from the cramped couch to the floor.

On-screen, footage of soldiers marching plays behind the guests. Someone gives a wrong answer. A klaxon rings out.

“I think Alan’s my favorite,” Feuilly says.

The quiz show turns to the topic of wine. Grantaire frowns at the carpet between his feet and thinks about Floreal’s class. When the episode is over, Jehan installs himself in his nook with graph paper and a textbook, and Feuilly curls up to finish reading.

Grantaire flees to his room and takes a swig of something. _Eighth_. It’s not even close to midnight. He curls up under his duvet.

 

<> 

 

“You on campus today? I’ve got, like, three hours’ break,” says Courfeyrac.

“Mmhm,” Grantaire hums into his phone, and nearly drops his paint palette on his food. “I’m painting right now, though. I’ll be done soon, I think – ”

“No, no, I’ll come visit! Give me five minutes and I’ll be there.”

“Courfey –”

He’s hung up, and Grantaire frowns around the closet studio at the unfinished panels.

Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre are mid-conversation in the far left corner of the room. Grantaire chuckles under his breath. _Far left_. Beside the doorway, Cosette is sitting on Marius’ lap, her head tilted as she listens to Eponine in the panel beside them. Gavroche, with his hair still only sketched in, is arm-wrestling Bahorel beside them, with Feuilly officiating, but their panel is still beside the radio. Bossuet, Musichetta, and Joly are laughing beside Jehan on Grantaire’s easel, all only sketched in with deep greys and some blue and orange.

Grantaire tosses his phone back on top of his bag, narrowly missing Gavroche’s grin beside the door.

“Woah,” says Courfeyrac as he arrives, slinging his bag beside Grantaire’s. “Hey, that’s _me_!”

He grins sunnily at his painted likeness and waves. Grantaire shrugs.

“How’s it going? Ready for, when is it..?”

“Two weeks,” Courfeyrac says, and slides into the chair not already taken by the spare length of mirror paneling.

“Want to run anything? I can half-prompt and still paint, you know,” Grantaire tells him.

He shakes his head.

“I feel like I could recite the whole thing backwards,” says Courfeyrac, bouncing slightly in his chair. “You bought a ticket?”

“We all did. Jehan did a massed booking and we paid him back.”

Courfeyrac pauses mid-bounce.

“So it’d better be good,” says Grantaire, grinning.

Pouting, Courfeyrac resumes bouncing.

“How’s the, ah, Enjolras thing going?”

Grantaire freezes with his paintbrush halfway towards canvas.

“Huh?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” Courfeyrac says, teasing.

“About as well as you and Jehan,” say Grantaire shortly. “Only it’s unrequited, very tragic, and all that.”

He tries to make it sound lighthearted, like he hasn’t spent the two hours before Courfeyrac’s phonecall stressing over the way Enjolras’ hair looks in his portrait, like he might actually see it and base his non-existent feelings for Grantaire on the way he paints the color gold. Courfeyrac, fortunately, takes the bait.

“Jehan is beautiful and is avoiding me because he drunk-kissed me,” he bemoans. “Look at his lovely face, for god’s sake, R.”

He gestures at Jehan’s portrait. Grantaire snorts, and adds another daub of deep blue to the outline of Jehan’s shirt.

 

<> 

 

“You’re still leaning way back,” calls Floreal from across the room.

Grantaire falls out of the turn with surprising grace and pulls a face.

“Again, I’ll go again,” he says hoarsely.

He runs the combination from the corner again, and Floreal doesn’t comment this time. She nods, lets him take a break and a sip of water, and gestures for her next victim to step forward.

It’s a week in, and Grantaire has already decided that technique is a form of torture. Not that he didn’t already know this, but Floreal has a way of making him actually care that he’s out of shape, that he’s forgotten how to make his body do things it used to have no trouble achieving. She gives very little feedback to the class of ten, but her eyes seem to say _I know you can work harder, give me more, don’t slack off, keep going_.

At four they’re let out of class, accompanied by admonishments from Floreal to rug up properly before going out into the snow. It’s mostly slush, and the weather has been somewhat sunny, but there’s a proper blizzard forecast early next week and Grantaire isn’t expecting winter to let up this early.

His body feels weak, like he’s got an extra body weighing him down. He dresses warmly after his shower and goes to line up for a coffee, then sits in the weak sunlight on the damp stairs outside. It takes him a few seconds to register another figure sitting a few yards away.

“Hey,” says Enjolras, when they’ve definitely made eye contact now and there’s no way for him to avoid Grantaire without being outright rude.

“Hey,” he says back, and stares at the lid of his coffee like it has the answer to the meaning of life engraved into it.

“Are we alright?” asks Enjolras, after a few uncomfortably long seconds.

“Uh,” says Grantaire, and hates that any anger he had towards him is trumped by the fact that his face is so fucking pretty.

“I don’t want to lose you as a friend,” he’s saying.

Grantaire closes his eyes, takes a breath, opens them again.

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t actually ask you to leave, you know,” says Enjolras quietly.

“Yeah,” he says again.

“I mean,” Enjolras says, and it would sound casual, except that he’s the least subtle person Grantaire knows, and it’s obvious he still feels bad about it, “we both aren’t always the best versions of ourselves.”

Grantaire can’t help but crack a smile at that.

“No, we aren’t,” he says, and takes a gulp of coffee.

Enjolras is smiling too, and _oh god_ Grantaire needs to look away.

“See you at the meeting?”

He can’t help but look, anyway. He grins, helpless.

“Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Also, 10 points if you can work out why Grantaire’s student number is what it is.
> 
> Comments/kudo/feedback all appreciated and indeed encouraged :)
> 
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	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “One project at a time, Apollo. Help the alcoholic,” he points at himself and mimes marking off a checklist, “run a few more ABC meetings, file a complaint about racial profiling, host a rally – ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for college exhaustion all around and for the discussion of alcoholism, and on a more light-hearted note, mild heartache, serious allocations of Hogwarts houses, and the promise of a snowfight.

“That’s it,” says Enjolras, exasperated.

He slams his laptop closed and slings it into his bag. Grantaire winces preemptively, anticipating a tirade.

“Let’s just get some dinner.”

Combeferre cracks a rare grin.

“Who are you and what did you do to Enjolras?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“I can’t be the only person here who’s hungry and overtired,” he says, glancing around the table.

Eponine has started folding her fourteenth paper napkin crane for the night. Bahorel has just woken from dozing on Musichetta’s shoulder.

“Do we want to get takeout and go somewhere, or – ” Marius starts to say.

“I don’t care how but can we get noodles?” interrupts Courfeyrac.

“There’s a great place near ours,” Feuilly says, and Grantaire and Jehan are quick to agree. “Udon and things, as well as dumplings.”

“It’s a Thursday, so won’t it be too crowded? Musain’s already filling right up,” says Joly.

“If you’re not too offended by hungover memories of my place – ”

“May as well,” Combeferre says to Enjolras, shrugging.

“Here’s the menu,” says Jehan, and passes over his phone.

It only takes them all a few moments to choose food and vacate the Musain. Feuilly and Jehan call the noodle house and drive off soon afterwards. The rest of them pile into Musichetta, Combeferre and, oddly, Enjolras’ cars.

“I can’t believe it,” says Grantaire, shit-eating grin plastered on.

“Shut up,” Enjolras tells him.

Grantaire just laughs. Enjolras’ car, driven down from Chicago by his aunt during the winter break, is a second-hand gift from his parents a few years back. It’s also a Buick stationwagon. And belches grey smoke.

“It’s going to the mechanic next week to sort out the, y’know.”

Enjolras waves a vague hand towards the rear of the car as he turns on the ignition. The car rumbles to life.

“I can’t believe you were genuinely considering marching for a greener America _last week_ , knowing you drive this thing,” says Cosette from the front seat.

“If you were a politician you’d be in deep – _holy shit_.” Marius breaks off as Enjolras stamps on the accelerator and the car swings out into an empty lane. “How does this old thing have that much power?”

Enjolras shrugs and flicks on an indicator.

“It was mom’s since she started back at work, after I was born. She probably didn’t even realize.”

Grantaire has a sudden mental image of tiny Enjolras in a wide-brimmed bucket hat being driven home from school. He grins, looking out the window.

“I can’t believe she kept it,” is what Combeferre says fondly, when they pull up in the drive. “Feuilly says they got dinner, too. They’ll be here soon.”

“Thank god,” says Enjolras, and clambers out from behind the wheel.

 

<> 

 

“Enjolras is Slytherin, no question,” says Bahorel.

“If you say so,” Enjolras murmurs, frowning down at something on his phone.

“It’s because you’ve got actual ambition, Apollo,” Grantaire cuts in.

He turns to Bahorel.

“Actually, by that merit, you’re in Slytherin, too, nerd.”

“Or Hufflepuff,” Bahorel says, shrugging. “I think it’s more of a work ethic thing, staying in law.”

“But you need the brains to get started,” says Feuilly.

“An administrative mistake, or someth – ow!”

Bahorel has punched him in the arm. Laughing, Grantaire shakes his head. For the first time in nearly a week he doesn’t feel like he’s falling apart.

“Fine, Huffle-claw-rin, or something,”

“Marius is over there, past the door. Bahorel, you’re taller than – ”

Bahorel waves at them from over the heads of the gathering crowd. Cosette’s hand is linked with Marius, dragging him through the crowd to join them, flanked by Jehan and Joly.

“Chetta’s parking, we ran into them in the lot outside,” says Jehan.

“Gryffindor, for sure,” Grantaire says sagely, gesturing at the new arrivals.

“Except me,” says Marius, grinning. “Hufflepuff through and through.”

“All hard work and no guts,” Cosette agrees, slinging an arm around his waist.

“You’ve got guts when it matters,” Jehan says.

“So do you, though,” says Enjolras.

He frowns, and slips his phone into his pocket. Jehan rolls his eyes.

“So Enjolras is Gryffindor, too?” he asks.

“Slytherin,” Grantaire insists. “The bravery thing is trumped by ambition.”

The conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Musichetta, Joly, and Combeferre. Grantaire mentally sorts them as Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw, respectively.

“I’ll go pick up the tickets, one sec,” says Jehan, and vanishes into the crowd.

When they line up to head inside, it turns out they’ve got two sets of seats.

“Okay, well why don’t we go with you guys,” Marius says, gesturing with the hand still holding Cosette’s at Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet.

Enjolras nods. Jehan hands the other half of the tickets to Cosette.

“See you guys after!” Bahorel calls.

“Where’s Eponine?”

Grantaire shrugs as he follows Feuilly upstairs.

“Working, I think. Which row are we?”

“Lett – letter W,” says Enjolras from in front of him, “Seventeen, seventeen to twenty-three.”

Grantaire spares a glance at him as they file past others finding their seats. He seems fidgety, plucking at the hem of his shirtsleeve. When he slumps into the empty seat beside Grantaire a moment later, he closes his eyes.

“Long week?” Combeferre asks, on his other side.

Enjolras snorts, eyes still closed.

“It’s only a – ” he cuts off, opens his eyes. “Wednesday, yeah?”

Combeferre pats him on the knee rather condescendingly.

“I don’t even know what we’re watching.” Enjolras says after a pause.

“It’s a collection of something, I think?”

Jehan nods at Feuilly

“Müller’s the one he keeps going on about,” he says.

“It’s a buttload of German playwrights,” Bahorel says, squinting down at the paper flyer they’ve been handed on their way inside.

Enjolras stifles a yawn and peers down at Combeferre’s paper.

“I haven’t heard of any of these,” he mutters.

“Just let it all wash over you,” says Grantaire, grinning. “Most theater’s like that anyway. Come up with your own reason for why it’s good or bad.”

“I’m sure it’ll be good, regardless,” says Enjolras stiffly.

When the lights go down, he’s leaned forward, elbows against his knees and head bowed.

“It’s starting,” Bahorel hisses, absolutely delighted.

Enjolras looks up at the stage, and Grantaire follows his gaze. The first few pieces are short, each no longer than ten minutes, and mostly black humour. Courfeyrac’s parts aren’t until the second half. The other students’ works aren’t bad, and Grantaire finds himself rating them out of five under his breath during the applause.

“Four?”

Feuilly grins and shakes his head.

“Five. That was the fucking funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Bahorel is wiping away tears of laughter.

“Six,” Combeferre mutters after the next one, which was anything but funny.

Stagehands in all black are clearing the minimal set from which a girl enacted a stillbirth.

“That was, well – ” Feuilly starts to say.

“ – heavy,” says Bahorel.

“When’s Courfeyrac’s again?”

Combeferre checks his flyer again.

“Oh, I thought the first one was before the first interval. It’s right afterwards, and then there’s another break, a second interval it seems, and then he’s in the short play at the end.”

“I’m confused. Why isn’t Bossuet – ”

“He’s got a play at the beginning of summer,” Combeferre tells Bahorel. “He gets tonight off.”

“So not til after interval?” Enjolras is asking.

“Mildly surrealist theater not doing it for you, Apollo?” Grantaire asks back.

Enjolras pulls a face, and Feuilly laughs.

“Come on, Enjolras, expand your cultural sphere,” says Combeferre, deadpan.

Enjolras huffs out a laugh just as the applause from the most recent performance dies down. He stifles it behind one hand. Combeferre raises his eyebrows and gets a muttered _fuck you_ just as the next group of actors begins.

“Don’t do that,” he adds afterwards, as they clap for the three girls advocating for the woman’s story in an unnecessarily sexist Müller play.

“Lighten up,” says Combeferre, and is somehow simultaneously joking and serious.

They stay in their seats during the first interval while flurries of students climb over each other to get drinks or go to the bathroom. Grantaire can’t help but notice that in an absence of conversation, Enjolras has slumped back in his chair, frowning at nothing in particular.

“Courf’s thing is a comedy, you know,” he tries.

Enjolras sort of shrugs but says nothing.

It does end up being quite funny, and Courfeyrac does a strange little bow at the end that has Bahorel in stitches for some reason. There are two other small skits, then a second interval before the play. Feuilly stands up, stretching.

“I’m going to pop in to the restroom,” he says.

“Same.”

Enjolras joins him and they sidle out into the aisle and out of the theater.

“He alright?” asks Bahorel.

Combeferre sighs, folding his flyer in half, then in half again.

“Stressed out of his mind, I think.”

“Why’d he come along tonight, then?”

Another fold. Grantaire is pretty sure he’s making a paper crane.

“Same as the rest of us. To support Courf,” he says.

Feuilly comes back on his own, frowning.

“Enjolras says he feels sick. He’s getting some air.”

“I can drop him home if he wants,” Combeferre says, and pulls out his phone to text him.

He doesn’t get a reply. When show is over and Courfeyrac has taken his final bows – to raucous applause – they file out into the foyer to meet the others. Feuilly spots him first.

“Enjolras?”

He’s sitting on a low couch with Joly, bleary-eyed. When Courfeyrac emerges from stage door some time later, he drags himself to his feet. The shadows under Enjolras’ eyes are worrying.

“I missed your thing and fell asleep out here,” he says sheepishly.

Courfeyrac snorts and shakes his head.

“Enjolras, no offense, I wasn’t expecting you to enjoy it anyway. Thanks for coming, though!”

He grins at their whole group now huddled in the foyer corner. Outside, the light snowfall is turning into sleet.

“Coffee?” Musichetta asks the group at large.

“I’m dropping you home,” Combeferre says to Enjolras, who nods, yawning.

“Musain!” says Bossuet, and chivvies the rest of them out the door.

 

<> 

 

He should have know this semester would be a balancing act, but Grantaire hadn’t counted on how many hours he wants in a dance studio on top of class time. He’s trying to catch up to his classmates. He’s trying not to drink as much.

His art major is barely a blip on the radar this week, after Floreal was ill and Le Gros took their class as a substitute.

“You call yourselves dancers? All in your final year, are you?” the old man had said, scathing, and Grantaire had taken it as a challenge.

He’s regretting the burst of dedication now. Feeling sick, he’s hunched on the bottom of the stairs outside the main studio, sipping at his water.

“R?”

It’s Enjolras calling out, coming in from the snow. There’s been sleet and only mushy piles of sort-of snow since Courfeyrac’s drama night. Enjolras ducks inside and shrugs his coat from his shoulders.

“Hey,” Grantaire says, half-waving. “How’s it going?”

“Another essay down,” Enjolras sighs.

He’s made his way towards Grantaire and is now frowning slightly at him.

“What?”

“How long are you here until?”

“I finished class an hour ago,” he says, and takes another sip of water. “Just summoning the energy to walk home.”

He doesn’t bother mentioning that forty minutes of the last hour was tugging at his hair and trying and retrying to get the jêté combination Le Gros had set, without success. Enjolras doesn’t need to know all of his failures.

“Did you want a ride home?”

Enjolras gestures at the sleet outside. It’s nearly four o’clock, and it’ll be dark in another hour.

“In your state-of-the-art green machine?” Grantaire can’t help asking.

“Mechanic told me it’d cost more than the car’s worth to fix it,” says Enjolras, half-smiling in spite of himself. “I’d rather drive it in short spurts than put it out for a tip or let some idiot have it.”

“We just can’t have any kind of greenhouse campaign til you get rid of it.”

Enjolras huffs a laugh.

“Really, though, I was about to head home and saw you here. Do you want me to drop you back?”

Grantaire would love to say yes, but he definitely needs to paint something this week or Mabeuf is going to kill him. It’s Wednesday. He’d better get on to that. He breathes in and out and swallows down the nausea.

“Have to work on art stuff, I think,” he says reluctantly. “Thanks, though.”

It’s only afterwards that Grantaire realizes it sounded like he was avoiding him. _There are worse things than not getting attached to unreachable crushes_ , he tells himself. Having to actually paint Enjolras an hour later does nothing to help.

 

<> 

 

His phone rings early on in a Monday meeting, and he ducks out into the hallway towards the bathrooms to answer it.

“Grantaire, Grantaire, Grantaire,” a voice croons from the other ends.

He feels his stomach lurch unpleasantly. Sure, they’ve both got addictive personalities or whatever, but _god_ it hurts to hear her slurring over the phone.

“Mom,” Grantaire forces out. “Where are you?”

“Just at home, darling,” she says airily. “I'm having such a wonderful time.”

“I – _why_ are you drinking??

“I always drink at night, darling.”

She’s told him so many times that she’s been sober since he started middle school. He forces himself to breathe before he speaks again.

“That's enough, Mom,” he tells her, more firmly than he feels.

She relents. He hangs up.

Inside Musain, the meeting is still miraculously happening, as if the world continues on even in a crisis. _This isn't even a crisis_ , he tries to tell himself.

Bossuet is laughing at something so hard that he spills most of his beer on the floor. Eponine goes to buy him another, grinning, and Combeferre seems to insist that he pay for it instead. Grantaire hasn't got a clue what anyone is saying. His ears are buzzing far too loudly.

“You alright?”

“Huh?”

He turns to see Enjolras frowning slightly at him, pen poised over a notepad.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says mechanically.

He looks away, back down at his empty soda glass. His eyes are stinging. He's had eight drinks already. He doesn't need another. He doesn't. (He does).

When the meeting ends he gives some kind of excuse and ducks back out into the hallway. From inside, he can hear the meeting wrapping up, until only Jehan and Combeferre are talking about a fundraiser. After a while they leave, too. They’re blessedly unaware Grantaire is still inside, hunched down, leaning against empty packing cases stacked neatly in the hall.

He counts to five, _in_ , _and out_ , _and in_. Lips pressed together, he stares unseeing at the cornicing. Five, four, three, two –

“Grantaire?” It’s Enjolras standing in the doorway, a crease carved between his eyebrows. “I thought you were heading to Corinthe.”

He feels the corner of his mouth twitch, trying for a smile, or something. The cornicing is cracked, the paint peeling around the edges.

“Change of plans,” he says.

His voice wavers.

Meanwhile Enjolras frowns. Grantaire has recently discovered that the one with the crease is the one that means he’s confused, not angry.

“Grantaire.”

His voice sounds gentle. Somehow, the rational part of Grantaire’s brain is still spinning enough to remind him that Enjolras _isn’t_ gentle. Grantaire shakes his head and takes a shuddering breath.

“What?”

“You seem – ”

Grantaire shakes his head and Enjolras stops speaking.

“I'm,” he tries to say, and finds his voice gone.

Enjolras is very still. The paint is still peeling up on the ceiling corners. Grantaire pushes against the wall and staggers to his feet, somehow.

“Enj, Ferre’s waiting. Did you still want come with us?”

Jehan, his face peering from around the doorway, takes in the scene at a glance.

“R, I didn’t know you were still – ” he pauses, frowns, “you okay?”

Now that it isn’t just Enjolras standing there and looking as if he cares, it’s remarkably easy to Not Care for the minute.

“Just a brief argument about financial reforms,” Grantaire babbles, and tries laughing.

It sounds only a little hollow.

“Lovely chat,” he manages, and slips out into the snow before either of them can stop him.

He ends up at Corinthe somehow, a little later, with no memory of getting there. He orders something, and then something more. It occurs to him, as he finishes his fifth drink, that he has already had eight. Unlucky thirteen, or something. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

**Bambi / 12.07am**

_Was Enjolras giving u a hard time?_

Grantaire can’t help but snort at the accidental euphemism. He calls back.

“First thing’s first he wasn’t giving me a hard time,” he says, in lieu of a greeting.

“Hey,” says Jehan, cautious and exhausted. “You alright?”

“That fucking question should be banned.”

He’s only feeling slightly hysterical. He giggles.

“So, no?”

“Let’s not talk about it, shall we? I’m too busy.”

“Busy,” Jehan repeats.

Grantaire can hear the raised eyebrow.

“Mom called me and it wasn’t good. Not up for discussion. I’ll come home sometime.”

“Shit,” says Jehan.

“Something like that.”

“Are you with anyone?”

“Just my one true love.”

“Corinthe doesn’t count, R. Do you need me to come pick you up?”

“Fuck, no, it’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Thanks, Bambi.”

He wakes the next morning to a pounding headache, relieved slightly when he throws up, and a folded letter emblazoned with a swirly capital R. It’s from Jehan.

 

_Hi –_

_I’m hoping you’re feeling a bit better when you wake up. There are painkillers in the kitchen cabinet if you’re out!_

_I checked your phone and you didn’t make any calls or send any texts after we talked. You got home about 2 but you were pretty upset so we put you to bed._

_Just wanted to write because we’re both shitty at talking to each other face to face, but I’ve got a few questions and I’d love you to tell me what you think:_

  1. _do you think we don’t care about you? I mean, like, the ABC and our friends (sorry not sorry for starting off heavy – the other questions aren’t as crazy I promise)_
  2. _can you think a bit more about AA? I respect you need to make your own choices but last night was fucking scary and honestly I’m not keen to repeat the experience (and neither is your liver etc. probably)_
  3. _want to tell Enjolras how you feel sometime? I spoke to him last night when you got home because he texted me when he didn’t get answers from you. I don’t think he hates you._



_You don’t even have to tell me the answers :) just work out what they are and do what you need to do._

_I love you heaps/don’t sleep all day <3_

_Jehan (Bambi)_

 

He has to throw up twice more before he’s ready to run a google search about the fucking AA or call Simplice’s office again. Afterwards, he scrawls a note for Jehan and tacks it to his bedroom door:

 

_Hi –_

_No, yes, maybe._

_Thanks,_

_R_

 

<> 

 

“Want me to drop you home?” Enjolras calls from the doorway.

Outside, snow is swirling in great drifts and obliterating the paths. Grantaire winces.

“I’ve got to finish another panel or Mabeuf is going to kill me,” he replies, hoisting his bag onto one shoulder.

“Call if it’s too snowy to walk back,” says Enjolras, shrugging, and heads out.

Grantaire grins, glad that Enjolras can’t see his flushed face.

 

<> 

 

He sends the text before he has a chance to talk himself out of it.

**sent / 3.22pm**

_What are your thoughts on getting coffee this evening so I don’t start drinking_

**Apollo / 3.24pm**

_I’m working until 5 if I’m not held back. What time?_  

**Apollo / 3.27pm**

_Also did you by any chance speak to Jehan about this?_

Grantaire swallows hard and frowns down at this phone screen for a good minute before he replies.

**sent / 3.28pm**

_occasionally I make reasonable decision for my own health, u know_

**sent / 3.29pm**

_but Jehan is better at it than me, so yeah, he kicked my butt til I agreed to try properly_

**Apollo / 3.34pm**

_My boss is going to slaughter me if I keep texting instead of reading this report_

**Apollo / 3.35pm**

_Glad to hear about Jehan’s/your decision. I’ll buy us as many coffees as it takes_

**sent / 3.42pm**

_You’ve signed up for the long haul, Apollo. I’ll be here til late, so just text when you’re around_

“Til five, you said,” says Grantaire hesitantly when Enjolras stalks into the Biggs foyer. He looks murderous, with flashing eyes and his gold hair like a halo streaked with sleet. “Also, have you read any Coleridge recently?”

“Coleridge?” asks Enjolras dully, as he throws himself into the chair opposite.

“Poet. Jehan’s a big fan. Not important,” Grantaire says, secretly glad he doesn’t have to explain the comparison that nearly slipped out.

“Sorry I’m so late,” Enjolras mutters.

He slings his bag onto the floor, then crams one hand into his coat pocket. His movements are jerky, stilted. He pulls out his wallet.

“Coffee?”

Grantaire frowns across at the creased forehead, creased shirt, fiery glare directed at nothing in particular.

“Take a second, you look dead on your feet,” he says.

Enjolras exhales, forceful.

“Sorry,” he says again.

“Bad day?” Grantaire ventures.

“I spent so much of the day reading about criminal records and didn’t have any way to make a difference,” he says, grimacing.

“Difference,” repeats Grantaire.

Enjolras taps an angry tattoo with one hand against his knee.

“This is so unimportant in the scheme of things. It’s just my ongoing frustration with law as a means of employment that happens to make a lot of money. Fucking corruption at every turn.” He shift in his seat, and fumbles in his wallet for a bill. “I don’t remember your coffee order. What do you want?”

“What do you mean, corruption at every turn? I can’t imagine you’d still be working somewhere that bad without having taken a stand or left,” says Grantaire.

“One, I don’t have a choice, because the internship was a favor from a friend of a friend of my dad’s,” Enjolras tells him. “Two, corruption is in every system, given that it seems to be human nature half the time. Three, the stuff I was working on today was _obvious_ racial profiling in accusations that – ”

He breaks off and looks up from his fingers still tapping at his knee at Grantaire.

“I’ll take whatever you’re having,” Grantaire says hurriedly. “Unless you’re getting, like, an Irish, which honestly you might need.”

Enjolras snorts, shaking his head.

“That rather defeats the purpose of not going to Musain, anyway,” he says.

He’d offered Biggs so that they didn’t have to be around others drinking. Grantaire’s trying so hard to fall out of love with him.

Enjolras hoists himself to his feet and strides across to the café in the wall of the foyer. Grantaire shifts in his seat, trying not to feel so creepy as he watches him order the drinks, leaning against the counter. There’s exhaustion in every line of his body. Grantaire can’t help but wonder if Jehan forced Enjolras to meet him here as a kind of payback for the drinking comment way back in January.

“You don’t have to still look so angry, you know,” is what he says when Enjolras returns holding coffee.

He glares at him, eyes bright.

“Have you seen the world recently?”

Grantaire can’t help but laugh. Enjolras passes him a cup of black coffee.

“One project at a time, Apollo. Help the alcoholic,” he points at himself and mimes marking off a checklist, “run a few more ABC meetings, file a complaint about racial profiling, host a rally – ”

“I don’t think I have the energy for the usual arguments, R,” Enjolras says, blowing on his own coffee to cool it. “I’m here to try to be helpful. I can’t say I’ll be much more than a body in the chair.”

“Appreciated,” says Grantaire softly.

He feels like he’s swallowed frogs, like it’s the end of semester and he’s got five essays due. Enjolras is just here on a favor. Enjolras is here to _help_ him. Enjolras thinks he’s a project. Enjolras called him R.

“Did you get reasonable action from college about all this?” Enjolras asks after a moment. “Eponine mentioned the dance faculty were helpful.”

“Yeah. I mean, it isn’t great, but it’s a start.”

He thinks of Feuilly and Joly’s hard work making lists of advice and helplines for student health support.

“We’re hoping the rally will be a chance to draw attention to that stuff, too,” Enjolras is saying, not looking at him.

Of course. He’s here so he can understand the problem. Grantaire tries to swallow down the bitterness with a mouthful coffee.

“So, when's the rally? Next week? Launching straight in?” he asks, mocking.

“Not til we get less snow,” Enjolras says tightly.

“Alright, alright. What's the plan?”

He backs off a little. He should at least pretend this doesn’t hurt as much as it does.

“Lobby the canteens for catered dorms about their leftovers needing not to be wasted – sent to local homeless and help shelters. Ep put us onto the idea. I'm actually pretty surprised no one's set it up already.” Grantaire can't be bothered to throw in his usual cynicism, so there's silence for a few seconds before Enjolras keeps talking. “It'd look good on their environmental ratings and stuff, not just their general goodwill.”

“College doesn't seem to be particularly interested in doing the right thing, though, hey,” he can't help saying, then flinches slightly.

“Yeah.”

“Where's your rebuttal, Apollo?”

It takes him a moment to reply.

“I'm so fucking _tired_ of this,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire knows it's not about lack of sleep. It’s about the unhelped. He needs a drink and can’t have one. Enjolras needs to help everyone but can’t.

 

<> 

 

“So, uh,” says Grantaire, biting at his lip.

Eponine’s own are pursed as she looks around his cupboard-studio at the panels that are mostly finished.

“They’re – ”

She breaks off. Grantaire sighs.

“They aren’t my best work, okay, okay, but – _oof, what_ – ” She’s hugging him, and the arms she’s wrapped around his waist are shaking. “Ep,” he says weakly.

She shakes her head, face buried in the front of his sweater. She’s crying. He runs a hand through her hair, shushing, utterly bemused for a long minute until she pulls away.

“They’re lovely,” she says, business-like.

The effect is ruined by the brightness of her eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Thanks,” he gets out.

He manages to contain himself until she leaves, then spends the next hour suppressing what feels like his first real smile since high school. Around him, his friends grin down at him from easel stands and wall hooks. Even Enjolras, with his gold hair, with a hand raised in the air, an angry gesture, doesn’t look quite so forbidding.

 

<> 

 

“Professor?”

He’s early to studio three but Floreal waves him inside as she drapes a damp coat over the back of a chair.

“Hi, Grantaire. Just start warming up, would you? I need to pick up something from my office.”

She waves and, leaving her coat and bag, strides into the corridor. The weather is all sleet outside, so he’s glad to launch into a warm up and unpeel the layers of sweaters he’s added over his tights and shirt. When Floreal gets back he’s trying a few experimental jumps.

“Don’t roll your knee, you’ll pop it out again,” she says warningly.

He stops, sheepish, and shuffles to the barre. After several emails back and forth he’s lucky to have gotten his two hours’ private tutoring with Floreal and not Le Gros or one of the others. She only agreed as long as he _worked hard all through the rest of this semester, no matter your situation, Grantaire_ , and he’s determined to stay on her good side.

“Run the pliés straight into the footwork,” says Floreal, watching him closely. “I’ll just watch for now, so I want you to go all out. We can do corrections after the first three exercises.”

He nods as she slides a disk into the CD player.

“And take that sweater off. You should be warm enough to be down to tights before any class even starts.”

Ten minutes in he’s sweating rivulets that he can feel running down his spine. He shivers a little as they pause between exercises. He needs a drink.

“You can’t expect me to watch you point your foot every time with an ankle like this,” Floreal chides, gesturing at his ankles.

They’re crossed so tighly into fifth that the nerves all down the backs of his legs are shaking.

“Don’t claw your hand like that, either. Upper body needs to release tension, no matter how hard these are working.” She presses firmly down on his shoulder with a narrow hand. He exhales. “Other side, and then we can move on.”

When they move (finally) to the center, Grantaire is starting to feel faint, and He sips water eagerly as she switches the CD.

“Now,” says Floreal, and it’s in such a tone that he turns to look at her properly.

Her eyes are very pale, almost grey, and nearly fade into the background of the studio. She’s frowning just a little.

“I want to see the port de bras we’ve done every week for class, but without any of the tension I always see. Pretend this isn’t tutoring. I’ll correct you later, but I want to see you _dance_ it, not run through it like a robot.”

He breathes in and out. He doesn’t need a drink.

Afterwards, he runs into Marius and Cosette downstairs on the main walkway back towards Musain.

“Don’t hug me, I’m sweating something fierce,” he warns, as Cosette sweeps in.

She kisses him on the cheek instead, and he ducks his head.

Marius has been Courfeyrac’s roommate since first year, so Grantaire sort of feels like he knows him, but Cosette has always seemed a mystery by comparison.

“Rehearsal?” Marius asks.

“Ninety minutes of torture,” Grantaire corrects.

Cosette snorts, and Marius laughs at her.

“Oi,” she says to him, punching his arm before she turns back to Grantaire. “But you enjoyed it, didn’t you.”

She isn’t asking a question. It occurs to him that an acquaintance, a friend’s girlfriend, can read his face better than he can read his own mind. He feels himself grin, thinks it might be okay for now, and shrugs.

“It was fine,” Grantaire says vaguely, and rummages in his bag for an apple. “See you guys on Saturday?”

 

<> 

 

He’s at the impromptu ABC weekend meeting like he was born to protest, though his involvement, as always, stops at turning up. He hasn’t got a clue why the meeting is so necessary.

“The weather is meant to clear properly,” Combeferre is saying. “Above thirty-five from Tuesday onwards, and pretty dry.”

They’re crowded around the coffee table in Enjolras’ living room because Jehan won’t let him go to the Musain unless it’s for work and even Valjean knows and pours him juice at the beginning of every shift for free. Not that everyone else knows. It’s just that Jehan has a way of social orchestration that doesn’t draw attention to things. Oh, and Enjolras knows, so Grantaire supposes it’s easy enough.

Their leader in all but name is between Combeferre and Courfeyrac on the largest of the couches, slouching into the cushions.

“So are we going ahead, then?” Joly asks.

“Not for certain,” says Courfeyrac. “This is so we can instigate it any stage.”

He’s frowning just a little at Combeferre’s laptop screen with its ever-present meeting minutes.

“Don’t we need to give people notice?”

Jehan’s voice is tentative, but at least he’s making eye contact with Courfeyrac again. Grantaire suppresses a grin.

“Five dollars,” he mutters in Eponine’s ear.

“Hm?”

“Courf and Jehan before the end of this semester.”

“You’re on,” she says back. “I reckon they’ll pine all of summer, first.”

“They already did that last year,” he says, but she hushes him.

“Alright so if we wallpaper everything, do we only need one day’s notice?”

“You’d have to go around to actual college housing and bus stops, too,” Eponine says to Marius. “Plenty of students aren’t on campus every day, at least on main walkways or anything.”

“But is one day enough to prepare people?” Cosette asks.

She sounds doubtful, and Grantaire is inclined to agree.

“We’ll need to imply it’s on the cards,” says Enjolras. “It’s the when that will be more of a surprise factor, otherwise admin will have a fit.”

He sounds strained.

“Is that everything else sorted, though?” Bossuet asks. “Are the flyers the signal, per se?”

“I think so,” Enjolras says.

He scrubs at his face and glances down at Combeferre’s notes again.

“That’s enough,” his friend says, snapping his laptop shut. Enjolras winces. “You alright?”

He shrugs.

“It’s a Saturday,” says Cosette, glancing between them. “If we’re done we should probably all go home and get shit done so that this coming week isn’t too stressful.”

“Yep, being prepared will make everything easier,” Courfeyrac says.

He stands and stretches, and Cosette and Marius follow suit.

“Migraine,” Enjolras is saying to Combeferre, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We should all go so you can go to bed,” says Jehan hurriedly.

Enjolras pushes himself to his feet and walks the last few of them to the door.

“Careful in the snow,” he says, as they button their coats in the front hall.

“Get some sleep,” Eponine tells him.

Enjolras shrugs again.

“Your report isn’t even due until Tuesday,” Combeferre reminds him.

He’s twisting a purple scarf around his neck.

“See you,” says Enjolras, as the last of them step outside.

He’s all creases, hunched a little against the cold, as he holds the door open for them. Grantaire wants to smooth them all away.

 

<> 

 

“I can’t believe the nametags and sitting-in-a-circle thing is true,” Grantaire mutters to the guy on his left, who chuckles, showing a gold tooth.

“Nothing’s funnier than the truth, son.”

Grantaire shrugs, and takes a biscuit from the plate being passed around as the attention turns on him.

“I’m, um, R, and – ” he breaks off, thinking. How can he tell a room full of alcoholics he hasn’t even tried stopping yet?

Gold Tooth slugs him gently in the arm, and it reminds him, painfully, of Bahorel. _Chill, man_.

“I’m R and I can’t make it past eighteen hours without a drink but I want to try,” he says.

The weight from his shoulders feels like it lessens, just for a second. It returns in full force when the stories start, when everyone in the circle is just like him and can’t seem to make it. He offers up a curse to whoever’s listening for his mother’s drinking habits, and concentrates on sketching the faces around the circle.

“I won’t be back,” says Gold Tooth, grinning, when the meeting’s over.

The crows’ feet on either side of his eyes somehow make him look younger, not older. Grantaire’s AA handbook is covered with outlines of the other members’ faces. Frowns. Smiles. Mostly unhappy people.

“I haven’t had a drink in a year, and I’m moving back in with my wife now. You take care of yourself.”

Grantaire meets three others with alcoholic mothers before the evening is out, but none of them have lopsided faces. The next week, Gold Tooth is back, but without the grin.

 

<> 

 

**Fetta / 10.26pm**

_Hey R, could you send me the final flyer doc soon as you can? I’ll try print them tomorrow morning before my classes. Thanks~_

**sent / 11.01pm**

_yeah sure I’ll send it now – I thought we weren’t going ahead til at least next week tho_

**Fetta / 11.03pm**

_Enjolras wants everything done in advance and he stress-called me just now : P now I can tell him I’ve asked you, but yeah if you can do that asap that’d be great. Thanks!_

**sent / 11.09pm**

_classic – sent so you’re free from wrath now_

**sent / 11.10pm**

_hey Apollo stop terrorizing your artiste comrades – Chetta just asked for the flyers and you’re not wallpapering anything til next week_

**Apollo / 11.11pm**

_Can’t sleep so I’m getting stuff organized. Sorry if she bothered you._

**sent / 11.13pm**

_it’s fine but ferre would have your guts if he knew you weren’t at least trying to sleep_

**Apollo / 11.14pm**

_In my defense, you messaged first._

**sent / 11.15pm**

_…because Chetta messaged ME. Good Night, Migraine Man._

**Apollo / 11.19pm**

_If I had a choice I think I prefer the mythology nickname. Night_  

He sees a grey-faced Enjolras the next morning as he ducks into the bathroom before meeting Mabeuf.

“Unfortunately I think your migraine nickname is more appropriate,” he mutters, rinsing his hands at the basin.

Grantaire pulls a face, sympathetic.

“Why are you even going to class?”

Enjolras shakes his head, half-smiling. He doesn’t answer, but he takes a deep breath before leaving, like he’s steeling himself for battle.

 

<> 

 

“I can’t believe it,” Feuilly breathes.

He’s standing in the kitchen, peering from the window into the parking lot below.

“Hm?” asks Jehan from his near-permanent study nest on the couch.

It’s a Sunday, but it’s a Sunday in February, which means mid-terms are approaching and Jehan is genuinely considering hibernation.

“Snowfall,” says Feuilly, grinning. “I thought we’d be done for winter by now.”

“It’ll melt in another ten minutes,” Grantaire says, shrugging, and shoves the last of his toast into his mouth.

It’s past two, but any food still counts as breakfast if it’s the first meal of the day. His phone buzzes a few minutes later, in sync with the others’.

**Apollo / 2.23pm**

_What kind of codependent friendship group do you think you are?_

Feuilly frowns at his phone for at least a minute.

“Any idea what that’s about?” he asks the room at large.

**Apollo / 2.24pm**

_To clarify: please postpone all further plans for today. Ferre has just informed me that he has never been in a snowfight before. The yard here is about ankle-deep (admittedly-slushy) snow as I send this. As such, the ABC has two missions for today: get Ferre to my place, and come join in. E_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than all the others I think, sorry, but oh well – the Major Events planned for the next two are going to take up plenty of space.
> 
> Feedback/comments/kudos all appreciated, as usual :)
> 
> ([as usual, you can also come say hi on my tumblr](http://herringbonefic.tumblr.com))


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh god don’t start with music theater,” Bahorel says urgently. “Courf’s just got here.”
> 
> “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your – ”
> 
> “ – cash money,” says Feuilly, in what would be a smooth voice (except that he’s already tipsy), as Courf sidles up to their table. “You’ve gotta buy a drink to join the game, and then we all have to drink because your rule is definitely unnecessary quotations.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for onscreen drinking and drunkenness, bad decision making, and sort of blacking out. There’s also some mild to middling panic and generally-vitriolic conversation, but also brief stupidity in the snow and some nice paintings.

By the time Feuilly’s driven them across to Enjolras’ place, the others are sodden and cold.

“You get one snowball to throw strategically then we’re all going inside,” Musichetta gets out, teeth chattering.

Combeferre gets her in the face a few seconds later. Joly limps to her rescue only to slip on the icy concrete where the snow has started melting already.

“Alright, inside, inside,” Enjolras says.

He hurries Joly and Bossuet inside to find a medical kit. Grantaire can’t help but grin.

“You didn’t get snowy at all,” he says accusingly.

Grantaire ducks, but not fast enough to dodge Jehan’s snowball from behind Feuilly’s car.

“You heard the glorious leader,” he tells Jehan, mock-glaring. “We’re going inside.”

“Everyone’s going to get the flu,” Joly is complaining, as Jehan follows Grantaire and Bahorel inside.

Enjolras is curled up at one corner of the couch. Musichetta is rubbing her hands together to warm her fingers, laughing at Courfeyrac, who is reenacting a particularly good example of snowball accuracy.

“ – and Enj kind of just, _sails_ ,” he says, struggling not to laugh.

“You were always so elegant,” says Combeferre.

He picks his way towards Enjolras, stepping between the others sprawled on the floor. Grantaire throws him a lazy salute as he passes.

“It doesn’t seem fair that you’ve got such good aim,” Enjolras says vaguely.

He’s frowning down at his phone.

“Middle school baseball,” Combeferre reminds him.

Enjolras kicks them out half an hour later, pleading college papers. For once, Grantaire’s glad someone made the call early. He climbs into the back of Fueilly’s car and doesn’t even remember he wants a drink for the whole ride home.

 

<> 

 

“You’re doing something funny with your left foot. Can you run it again?”

Grantaire closes his eyes for a second, nods, and opens them again.

“From the top, or – ”

“Just from the diagonal,” Courfeyrac says.

He’s gnawing on the end of his pencil, his books abandoned on a spare chair beside him. Grantaire takes a few extra steps back and launches into the combination.

“That’s it, okay, okay – ”

Courfeyrac chomps down on the pencil properly.

“’hen y’ do d’ firs’ s’ep, and y’re ‘ooking ac’oss – ”

“Sorry?” Grantaire asks, grinning. Courfeyrac spits the pencil to the floor. “Gross.”

“Shut up,” he says, laughing. “Anyway, from the corner – ”

Courfeyrac’s a gem, more than usual, and he’s finally cracked why every time Grantaire runs this combination he ends up with his whole torso twisted. Musical theater jazz must be more serious than Grantaire remembers from high school. Maybe he just didn’t pay enough attention.

“ – so you’re landing too far forward on your left,” Courfeyrac finishes saying.

He’s got to do an open technical class run by no less than Le Gros, while Floreal watches, in two weeks time. There’s also the prepared sequences they can be asked at the end. Memorization is the least of his problems, though. It’s the jangling nerves of not quite knowing that set him off, usually. He had to pull out of class last week because thinking about it made him dry retch, and then drink.

“Thanks,” he says, grateful.

“Not a problem. Is that your last assessment for this?”

“Aside from the paper, yeah.”

It’s on any significant performer of the last century. Grantaire’s never had such a wonderful essay topic in his life. He’ll finally have a reason to binge watch Baryshnikov clips on YouTube.

“What about your art major?”

Grantaire pulls a face. He hopes it seems more casual than it feels.

“Ugh. I’ll survive.”

He hasn’t painted anything for a week. Mabeuf sent an email last week that he hasn’t had the heart to reply to yet.

“As long as I can come to the exhibition,” says Courfeyrac.

“Maybe,” Grantaire mutters.

He trots back into the corner to run the sequence again. Courfeyrac, thankfully, drops the subject.

 

<> 

 

“Bahorel’s going to meet us straight from work,” Feuilly says.

He’s hunched beside the front door, tying his shoelaces. Grantaire runs a hand through his hair.

“Sure you don’t want to join us, Bambi?”

Jehan suppresses a snort of laughter.

“My heart is saying yes but my liver and my five thousand word paper are saying no.”

“If you miraculously finish it early you can come join us,” Grantaire says, shrugging.

“Unlikely. Enjoy, have a good time actually talking to each other, yeah?”

Jehan says the last couple of words with perhaps a harsher tone than needed. Grantaire ignores the way his flatmates seem to be having a wordless conversation about his sobriety. He hasn’t had more than five drinks in a day for a month, and usually it’s three or four.

“What time did he say?”

“After eight. I reckon we just head over and he’ll join us,” Feuilly suggests.

Last week, Grantaire got to sit in Dr Simplice’s office and tell her he hasn’t felt like he’s drowning in ages. She even signed a form for him for Floreal, and told him she was glad it was probably the last bit of paperwork for a while.

“Is Courfeyrac coming too?” Grantaire asks, following Feuilly into the hallway.

“Late, if he can. He’s got to edit a paper, I think.”

“Don’t we all?”

Feuilly just laughs and crams his hands into his pockets.

Aside from having a name that Grantaire knows he wouldn’t be able to say when drunk, Brick-a-Brack Bar turns out to be pleasant enough at first. Feuilly grabs them each a beer and they tuck themselves into a corner as the place gradually fills.

“It’s nice to be able to go out like this,” Feuilly says, gesturing slightly with his still-full glass.

Grantaire forces himself not to gulp another mouthful; his is half empty already.

“Go out?”

“I mean, well, we’re both older, but it’s nice that our friends are all twenty-one, y’know.”

“Yeah. This is good – what is it?”

“Their house beer,” Feuilly admits. “Their menu’s about a mile long.”

Grantaire peers across at the bar. He can make out a lot of scribbles on several blackboards hanging behind the bartenders who weave back and forth, serving customers. The place is starting to fill up with mostly students, but there are enough young businessmen and women scattered throughout the crowd that Grantaire almost feels like they aren’t only a minute from campus.

“I’ll pick something exciting for round two,” he tells Feuilly.

“We can make Bahorel buy the final round, then?”

Grantaire frowns down at his drink.

“Sounds like a plan, my man,” he says.

That will leave him no room to maneuver. He’s already had two drinks today, and five is his absolute limit. He bites on his lip and tries not to think about it.

“Bahorel!” Feuilly calls, waving, startling Grantaire out of his brain fog.

Bahorel makes his way over, dodging an old guy nursing a glass of something golden. Grantaire determinedly looks at Bahorel instead, but he’d be prepared to bet that it’s the gold-toothed guy from AA.

“Can I buy you gentlemen a drink?” Bahorel croons, mock-sultry, as he draws level with their table.

He offers a hand to Grantaire, who shakes it, then shrugs out of his suit jacket.

“We’re still on numero uno, Babs,” Feuilly says.

Grantaire snorts and nearly inhales his drink.

“Babs?”

“Even I haven’t heard that one before,” says Bahorel, shrugging.

“Get with the times, Granite Hair,” Feuilly deadpans.

This time Grantaire actually does splutter over a mouthful of beer.

“Budge up, budge up,” Bahorel says, patting him on the back and simultaneously shoving his stool a few inches to the left to make room for his own.

Feuilly asks after work and Grantaire tunes out as Bahorel runs through the usual list of complaints. He tugs the cardboard coaster out from under his now-empty glass and flips it between his hands in an attempt to avoid thinking about drinking or the essay he still has to write for Floreal. It doesn’t really work.

“So what’s this story about an ABC portrait?”

“Oh, yeah,” Feuilly cuts in, one eyebrow twitching up. “What’s so special about Courf and Ep that they’ve seen it already?”

“Neither of them have seen it finished,” Grantaire protests.

Bahorel nudges him none-to-gently in the ribs.

“Even _I_ haven’t seen it finished,” Grantaire adds, grinning.

Half an hour later Bahorel’s bought them each a different beer and, rather than behaving like civilized creatures, they’ve established a complex drinking game. Well.

“What the fuck is the point of a drinking game where everyone has the same amount?” Grantaire asks, raising an eyebrow.

Feuilly only falters for half a second but Grantaire doesn’t miss it.

“And that’s a complaint from Grantaire,” Bahorel says blandly. “Drink and move left.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and takes a deep pull of the lightest of the three glasses before sliding it across to Feuilly.

“ _Mazel tov_ ,” Feuilly says absently, and passes his own glass to Bahorel.

“A blessing on your head,” Grantaire sings under his breath.

“Oh god don’t start with music theater,” Bahorel says urgently. “Courf’s just got here.”

“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your – ”

“ – cash money,” says Feuilly, in what would be a smooth voice (except that he’s already tipsy), as Courf sidles up to their table. “You’ve gotta buy a drink to join the game, and then we all have to drink because your rule is definitely unnecessary quotations.”

Courfeyrac glances between the three of them and cracks a grin, slinging an arm across Feuilly’s shoulders.

“Bring it on!”

“So then, so, then, so – ” Feuilly breaks off, practically crying with laughter, and apparently can’t finish the story.

Bemused, Grantaire shrugs at Courf, who’s watching Bahorel and Feuilly lean against each other, giggling uncontrollably. It’s either been an hour or three and Grantaire doesn’t know how many. He feels kind of fuzzy, except he’s only had three drinks since they left the flat and he shouldn’t feel anything.

“Four?” Feuilly asks the table at large.

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, mouth dry.

The others don’t know about the drinks at home. Six is fine. He offers to get the round, palms sweating as he reaches for his wallet. The blackboard directly behind the bartender taking his order seems to be swaying slightly. He reminds himself to breathe, and it settles.

“Three of that lovely green labeled one,” Grantaire says, trying for a smile, “and, ah, whatever he’s having.”

He gestures to Gold Tooth, who’s still slumped at one end of the bar.

“He’s less than cheery,” says the bartender girl, brushing her fringe from her eyes and peering at him. “Want something different?”

“That’s – no, that’ll – ”

She doesn’t wait for him to finish, just shrugs and smiles before going to find fresh glasses. He leans against the edge of the bar and forces himself not to look back at the others. Aside from the fact that Courf is laughing too loudly, he could be anywhere in the world. He tries not to think about it too much, and swigs the golden liquid as soon as the girl comes back with it, throat burning.

“Thanks,” he manages, grimacing.

When he gets back to the table, the others haven’t been watching him, either.

They leave, soon afterwards, and trudge down back towards Musain.

“I just _desperately_ want fries,” Courf says, wde-eyed and serious.

“And you don’t want to pay ten dollars,” adds Feuilly.

He somehow sounds so reasonable. Aside from the laughing fit before, he could be the most sober of them all.

“Shit,” Grantaire says, stopping short, hand searching his packets.

He leaves them near the student legal center and loops back to Brick-a-Brack to find his phone. It’s at the bar. The girl brushes her fringe out of her eyes again before she passes it back.

“Want a last one for the road?” she asks.

It’s casual. She doesn’t mean anything by it. Grantaire has felt himself slipping all evening. He clenches his empty left hand, still in his pocket.

“May as well be comfortable,” he says, and pulls up a stool to the bar.

 

<> 

 

“What the _fuck_ , Grantaire, what – hang on, no, sorry, I’m – where are you?”

“Huh?”

“Grantaire. Where are you?”

“Bick-a-Back,” Grantaire enunciates carefully, frowning.

That doesn’t sound right. His lips are made of rubber, Feuilly’s voice very loud in his ear. Grantaire’s spare hand is curled around a glass with half an inch of something warm and gold. If he drinks it he’ll feel even warmer.

 

<> 

 

Grantaire comes to, briefly, emptying his guts onto the road, with someone’s hands raking the hair out of his eyes. The hands are thin and brown and shaking. Jehan wasn’t out with them. Grantaire is too tired.

 

<> 

 

He comes to for the second time, squinting against the glare of sunlight peeking between drawn curtains. It probably isn’t that bright. He frowns, shifts, remembers Gold Tooth –

“R, hey,” says Feuilly.

Grantaire twitches, cricking his neck and opening his eyes properly at the voice. It turns out he’s sprawled on the living room couch beneath the duvet from his own bed. His head _aches_. Feuilly is perched on the coffee table, white-faced.

“Hey,” he says again. “How’s it going?”

Grantaire thinks he might be sick if he tries to sit up. He attempts a horizontal shrug instead.

“Um. I don’t want to move, Aside from that – ”

“Okay,” says Feuilly carefully.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow and regrets it, temples throbbing.

“You busted your hand, by the way.”

“I – what?”

He pulls both hands from beneath the duvet and hisses when his right hand twinges. When he pulls it free it’s strapped neatly, gauze stretched over knuckles and a palm that must be skinned nearly down to the bone. Grantaire pulls a face.

“How did that even – ”

“You, ah, tried to punch Bahorel.”

Grantaire half sits up so fast that the room spins. He grips the edge of the couch with his good hand, willing himself not to throw up.

“He forgives you,” Feuilly adds, one corner of his mouth twitching.

It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It also reminds Grantaire, painfully, of Enjolras.

“Fuck,” says Grantaire, then, “oh god, where’s Jehan?”

“Sleeping,” Feuilly mutters, “finally.”

It turns out he threw up intermittently for two hours and Jehan nearly made Feuilly drive them, drinks and all, to ER. Bahorel convinced them to wait another few minutes. Grantaire thanks his lucky stars.

It’s a Sunday, so Grantaire didn’t have any plans aside from moping today anyway, but it’s nearly impossible to watch Feuilly drag himself about the flat making an early lunch and a cup of coffee he says is his third.

“Sorry,” Grantaire gets out, when he’s feeling stable enough to sit up.

Feuilly freezes, one hand outstretched halfway towards the pantry door. Grantaire swallows hard.

“Thanks,” says Feuilly, voice cracking.

It’s like a strange pantomime, neither of them moving, but Grantaire know Feuilly might start crying and he might be sorry but he is nowhere near prepared for _Feuilly_ , of all people, crying. He mutters something about needing to shower and beats a hasty if not wobbly retreat to the bathroom.

 

<> 

 

After trying and failing to shower without ruining the gauze he knows was carefully tied by Jehan, Grantaire tears off the bandage, swallows down bile at the sight of the grazes, and forces himself under the shower and back into fresh clothes. Slumping onto his bed he fishes his phone charger from between his bedsheets and plugs in his phone.

He’s curled up with a book that he isn’t even reading – just staring blankly at the first page – when the phone starts buzzing madly, little blue light flashing. He takes a breath in and out before looking at the screen.

Five missed calls: two from Courf, one each from Bahorel and Feuilly, one from Jehan and one – Grantaire sucks in a breath – from Enjolras, of all people. They’re all time stamped sometime after eleven.

There are too many messages to even begin scrolling through. Grantaire tosses the thing across the room, suddenly blindingly angry, and winces as it hits the wall with a loud _crack_.

“R?”

It’s Jehan’s voice, from outside the door. Grantaire feels sick.

“Yeah?” he calls back, a beat too late.

“Feuilly’s working. I’m – getting, getting groceries.”

His stutter makes him sounds like Enjolras, mouth twisted, face grey. Grantaire clenches his hands tighly in his lap, welcoming the sting as the skin splits. He’s not sure he’s ever hated himself this much before.

“Back in a few minutes,” Jehan adds.

He sounds exhausted.

“Sure,” Grantaire gets out. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He hears Jehan close the front door. For half a second Grantaire thinks about going into the kitchen, finding some food, doing _something_. He’s probably still drunk. He manages half a laugh, voice hoarse, hand stinging, before curling up in bed. He’s out like a light and doesn’t wake til Monday morning.

 

<> 

 

Floreal’s class is, to put it simply, hell. Grantaire’s not even sure if it’s the residual hangover or the persistent dark cloud hanging over everything, but he can’t concentrate long enough to learn the combinations. The rest of the class is having no trouble, which isn’t helping. Floreal purses her lips and says nothing, but even her patience seems to have worn thin. She doesn’t say anything until after class, when most of the class has left and the last handful of students are slinging bags over shoulders and wrapping layers over sweat-slicked bodies.

“Grantaire, do you have a minute?”

He nods, wooden, and has to stand there while the last few file out. They saw him in class, too; he has no doubt they know why he’s being asked to stay. He steels himself for whatever an angry Floreal looks like as she turns to face him.

He blinks. She’s frowning at him, but it’s the kind of frown with a little crease between the eyes, the kind that people give you when they’re –

“Grantaire,” she says again.

He presses his lips together and breathes _in and out_ through his nose.

“I’m not getting you in trouble. I don’t need the full story, I just want to check in. Everything okay?”

Five minutes later, when he’s hunched over the sink in the bathroom, eyes now only slightly red, he’s not sure what he even told her. He takes another breath, _in and out_ , and walks home in a veritable downpour of rain.

 

<> 

 

It’s worse than he realized, when Grantaire finally gets around to checking the messages from the Brick-a-Brack night a week later. He hasn’t been to the ABC or seen anyone aside from his housemates and Eponine, who calls in after the meeting on Thursday night to _borrow your course notes from Mabeuf_.

“Hey, come back next week, if you can?”

He had grimaced instead of replying. She had planted a quick kiss on his cheek and told him not to miss AA.

Now, though, he’s staring at his phone screen and wondering if he can move to Canada instead of deal with the fallout he didn’t even mean to start.

 

**sent / 11.24pm**

_Enjloras you should come have a drink here its wonderful_

 

**sent / 11.25pm**

_Frilly and the others are m issing o u t_

 

[one (1) missed call from **Apollo** ]

 

**Apollo / 11.29pm**

_Grantaire, where are you right now?_

 

**Apollo / 11.38pm**

_Okay I called Feuilly. They’re coming back to get you._

**Apollo / 11.41pm**

_If you’re in a fit state, please explain why Courfeyrac just called me for five seconds then hung up._

**Apollo / 12.05am**

_Jehan called me. No need to reply._

**sent / 12.33am**

_syryy_

**Apollo / 8.32am**

_Jehan said you’re alright. Please don’t do that to him again._

 

As he’s staring at the glowing screen, letters scrambling for his attention, the phone buzzes:

 

**Apollo / 9.10pm**

_ABC are wallpapering campus tonight. Stay home._

 

<> 

 

He paints, instead, furious. When the colors start melting together, his eye sockets aching from staring at the canvases, and from the smell of the paint, he lets himself into the kiln room on the ground floor and coils lengths of clay into vases for the ceramics class he’s already failed.

It’s late, and Mabeuf definitely didn’t give him a key to the Art storage center so he could capitalize on his insomnia, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He ignores Eponine’s calls, twice, and only texts her back so it isn’t a repeat of Enjolras’ string of icy messages. She tells him not to skip AA. He asks himself why he thought she wouldn’t know, somehow. He skips anyway.

 

<> 

 

Enjolras may be an asshole, but he’s also good at ignoring problems until they go away, which is why Grantaire is sitting in the corner of the Musain the following week, biting his tongue. He’s engaged in an extensive tic-tac-toe competition with Bossuet, passing a familiar ballpoint pen back and forth and scrawling little Xs and Os onto spare serviettes. When Bossuet convenes seriously with Joly beside him as to his next genius game plan, Grantaire scrawls another note or two about Baryshnikov along his forearm. At this rate he’ll have finished his Floreal essay before the meeting is even over.

“There were a whole lot of people talking about it in our psych class,” Marius is saying earnestly.

Combeferre is taking notes. Cosette is braiding her hair, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth.

“So they’ve been seen,” Enjolras says, nodding. “Good.”

“Should probably do one more round before the big reveal,” Courfeyrac tells the group at large. “That way they’re got two chances to see the info before we spring the plan on them.”

“Another night this week?” Bahorel asks.

He’s got a kind of Cheshire grin on tonight. Grantaire makes a mental note to ask why, then remembers he’s not speaking to any of them. Well. He doesn’t want to until the scabs on his hand are less tender. Holding a brush still requires an awkward angle. There isn’t a single sweater in his wardrobe that doesn’t have at least a little bit of paint on it somewhere, now.

“As long as we’re careful,” says Combeferre, looking up from his ever present laptop.

He sounds exhausted. Enjolras nods, flashing him a brief grin. It’s shark-like, all teeth, and Grantaire wonders briefly if they’ve all been possessed by demons, thirsty for blood or at least someone’s downfall. From the corner of his eye, Musichetta’s eyes glint in the light, dark gold.

“If you’re going to keep up patronage you may as well pretend you’re buying, you lot.”

Eponine sweeps over from behind the counter, a bottle of water in one hand and a stack of glasses in the other. Courfeyrac leaps to his feet and retrieves more of the same from the counter, nuzzling her shoulder awkwardly like a cat as he sidles back to the table, laden down with glassware. She resumes serving drinks, but she’s definitely listening in.

“Thanks,” Grantaire mouths at her, pouring some for Bahorel and himself.

He isn’t sure if he wants them all to drink and ignore him, or if this is the better option. It’s hard to tell which is easier. In short, neither. He needs to go back to AA. She catches his gaze and raises an eyebrow. He grins and toasts her with his glass of water.

 

<> 

 

It’s only raining lightly when Grantaire steps out of Biggs just after five. He’s been staring at portraits all day and added maybe five brushstrokes. Mabeuf would kill him if he knew. Luckily he manages to run into Enjolras instead, and welcomes the distraction even as he feels his heart rate stutter.

“You left this behind,” Enjolras says stiffly.

It’s the ballpoint pen from Musain last Thursday.

“I’m pretty sure it’s yours,” says Grantaire.

He’s tired. It’s hard to care about the sentimentality of a tenuous friendship, make-or-break, when you’ve only had three hours of sleep. Enjolras frowns.

“Would you, um, do you want coffee?”

He’s tired, and it should be overwhelming but instead he’s just angry.

“You don’t have to _baby_ me, _Jesus_ ,” Grantaire snaps.

Enjolras recoils just slightly. His hair catches the light, glinting.

“It’s nearly finals and I asked if you want caffeine,” he grits out. “ _Sorry_.”

“I already fucking failed at the AA thing, okay, Apollo?” Grantaire shoots back. He hoists his bag higher onto his shoulder, feeling the tremor in his hands. “This was already going to be thankless anyway.”

He swallows down the sting behind his eyes and in the back of his throat. _Inhale. Exhale._

“I – wasn’t trying to help you for brownie points, R,” Enjolras is saying, exasperated. Grantaire looks away. The rain is staining the sidewalk, wind blowing the droplets against the glass door. “What kind of fucked up friend would I – ”

If it wasn’t already a joke of a day, if he wasn’t running on adrenaline and coffee and three hours of sleep, he might interrupt Enjolras and ask how the fuck they ended up friends again. He called him R, again.

It is that kind of day, though. Grantaire’s having enough trouble breathing. Fingernails digging into his left palm, he swipes the pen from Enjolras’ outstretched hand. He can make an escape, if he just –

“Can I at least drive you home?”

“I can walk,” he gets out.

“It’s no trouble,” Enjolras says.

His voice is soft. There’s one hand on his shoulder, propelling him gently down the path beside the building. The rain is very cold, one droplet hitting the bare skin between his collar and his hair, sliding down the back of his neck. He shudders.

“I can walk,” Grantaire hears himself say again, but his voice hitches.

Enjolras is wearing a red jacket that’s almost blinding. He opens the car door – when did they get here? – and bundles Grantaire into the passenger seat. It’s warm and dry and smells faintly of tobacco. It shouldn’t be, but it’s comforting. He takes a breath.

“Buckle up,” Enjolras says.

His voice is wooden. Grantaire sneaks a glance at him as he reaches for the ignition but his eyes are fixed on the road. The engine splutters to life.

 

<> 

 

When Jehan gets home Grantaire is three quarters of the way through a soup recipe he can only sort of remember.

“It’s so late in semester I’d almost forgotten cooking was a real thing,” says Jehan, kicking off shoes and slinging his backpack onto the couch. “Do you want a hand?”

Instead of looking at him, Grantaire slices another potato into quarters and tosses it into the boiling water. In the larger pot beside it, the stock and other vegetables are already simmering, mixed through with garlic and chilli and probably more nutmeg than necessary.

“It’s kind of an avoidance strategy,” Grantaire admits, turning his attention to the mushrooms, and then, more quietly, “and an apology.”

He’s sliced most of the mushrooms before Jehan has crossed the tiny kitchen and gently, so gently, wrapped an arm around Grantaire’s middle, chin hooked over Grantaire’s left shoulder.

“Thank you,” Jehan murmers into the fabric of his sweater.

Grantaire keeps chopping vegetables. It’s easier than replying, until Jehan untangles himself and takes the knife from him.

“I’ll get the rest of these,” he insists, and Grantaire has to swallow down a laugh threatening a sob, because he doesn’t deserve Jehan, no one does, except perhaps –

“Only if you ask Courf out,” he quips, and thoroughly deserves Jehan’s glare.

Once Feuilly is home, the soup pot is emptied, half eaten by the three of them and the rest doled into old takeout containers, and Grantaire forces himself to go to bed early. In the dim light from beneath his bedroom door he scrabbles for his charger. Before he plugs in his phone, he drafts too many messages he isn’t going to send, and one that says none of what he wants to say.

_~~hey, sorry about being an asshole~~ _

_~~sorry about being an asshole~~ _

_~~hey, sorry about today. I’ll make it up to you with coffee tomorrow?~~ _

_~~sorry – coffee tomorrow? I can~~ _

_~~thanks for~~ _

 

**sent / 9.22pm**

_thanks for the ride home_

**Apollo / 9.34pm**

_Anytime_

<> 

 

The panels are nearly done, except for the last final round of details, like the glint of light on teeth or eyes or earrings. Grantaire has nearly finished propping them against the walls in the right order when Mabeuf pokes his head around the open doorway.

“Bit late, sorry,” he says.

He strides inside anyway. Grantaire bites hard on his lip. On Mabeuf’s left, Musichetta is flanked by her boyfriends on one side and Jehan on the other. From the other side of the doorway, the others all glance across as if to look at her, except for Enjolras, halfway through a conversation with Combeferre. Theirs is the only panel with any significant work left to paint.

“So,” says Mabeuf, frowning slightly.

“I’ve got to do one last layer,” Grantaire tell him, “and the mirror.”

“Where are you going to be?”

“Next to Combef – just there,” Grantaire amends, gesturing to the gap.

“So the project is a self-portrait after all, hm?”

Grantaire shrugs. He’s too tired.

The mirror panel only has an outline of himself in the same grey he used for Eponine and Gavroche’s eyes.

“Bit vague,” Mabeuf says, lips pursed. “Are you going for that?”

“Perfect,” Grantaire deadpans.

The art professor barks a laugh.

“Maybe just one more color?”

Grantaire nods, sinking down onto his chair.

“It’s not bad,” Mabeuf adds, on his way out.

Grantaire pinches himself, then locks the studio behind him and goes to buy more red paint before Floreal’s class.

When he arrives, she waves him over to the corner of the room where she’s hunched over a notebook.

“Did you want to go early or late in the week?”

Grantaire farewells the warm fuzzy feeling that had almost settled in his stomach.

“Uh,” he says.

He shuts his eyes and jabs a finger at the page.

“Wednesday, then,” says Floreal. “Right in the middle.”

Hiding a smile, she nudges his hand out of the way and writes his name in a copperplate hand he can never hope to replicate.

Class is exhausting. He pops his knee out halfway through, and Floreal makes him get his own ice pack from the corridor for _slacking on your alignment, Grantaire_. The ABC poster, now somewhat ratty, is still bright red beneath the recital announcements on the dance noticeboard.

More interesting, though, are the burnt orange panels slapped haphazardly over everything else. They’ve got his logo, the red hands, in the corner, but Eponine must have done these because the penmanship is lovely even if the color scheme is dreadful. _The ABC stands with ALL students_ , it says. Grantaire pulls a face, presses the ice pack to his knee, and hobbles back to the studio.

“Wednesday,” Floreal says to him pointedly, when they’ve finished the _révérence_.

“I’ll do my best,” he tells her.

“If you can convince Le Gros, you can convince anyone,” she says.

He snorts. _Unlikely_. Slinging his bag over one shoulder he limps downstairs to the showers.

 

<> 

 

“Apparently you have to find a goal,” Gold-Tooth is saying.

Grantaire forces himself back to the present. It’s his first session back at AA and they’ve been split into groups of four to talk _strategy_. He can’t work out if it’s a good or bad idea. He’s got plenty of bad strategies for dealing with how he feels, just not –

“Positive reinforcement, exactly,” says a middle-aged woman in a blue blouse.

“Easier said than done,” Grantaire points out, because he may as well fulfill the role of hopeless cynic regardless of the company he keeps.

“My wife’s my goal,” Gold-Tooth tells them, grinning.

Grantaire spends the rest of the evening alternating between wondering who his positive reinforcements should be, and feeling disgusted that it’s taken him so long to figure them out.

 

<> 

 

**Nice Rac / 10.13am**

_Never mind that. Alright gang, Bossuet and I have performances today, and Joly/Jehan/Ferre have exams – good vibes, please!_

 

R frowns at his phone screen, rolling his shoulders. Never mind what?

 

**Nice Rac / 10.17am**

_AND R HAS HIS DANCE FINAL_

**Nice Rac / 10.18am**

_fuck I’m sorry I left u out of the group msg_

 

**sent / 10.23am**

_I’ll survive – merde for ur monologue, both of you!_

 

**sent / 10.24am**

_BREAK A LEG, BAMBI!!!_

 

**Bambi / 10.25am**

_Thanks! Stop texting me, your exam’s in five minutes!_

 

**sent / 10.27am**

_Don’t tell me how to live my life_

 

**Ferre Dinkum / 10.28am**

_All the best! E says to say ‘break a leg’, too_

 

<> 

 

“Alright, take five minutes for a breather, then we’ll have the port de bras,” Le Gros says.

Grantaire tries not to read into the old man’s glare too much and sips water as the girls change their shoes.

“Music in three, two – ”

 

<> 

 

He’s not sure that finals have ever felt quite this scattered. After their released from the technique exam Grantaire scrubs the sweat from his body and actually gets all the way to Simplice’s office before he starts shaking. He hopes the receptionist can’t tell, but she keeps sneaking him glances. It’s been three drinks a day for a week, now.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out to check the backlog of messages.

 

**Nice Rac / 10.41am**

_HERE GOES_

**Hugo Boss / 10.49am**

_Courf just did a fucking unbelievable monologue_

**Hugo Boss / 10.51am**

_How am I meant to follow on from that?_

**Hugo Boss / 10.52am**

_Ah shit you’ve got your dance thing. Merde merde merde! (check it out, just made a good luck pun aw yis)_

**Bambi / 12.41am**

_Hope it went well!_

 

“Won’t be a moment,” the receptionist says.

Grantaire concentrates on counting to five.

“My apologies,” Simplice says, finally, ushering him in and gesturing to the seat. “Would you like a minute?”

“Thanks,” he manages, relieved, and slumps back against the chair cushions.

He lets his eyes roam over her desk, taking in the colours. Grey, yellow, beige folders, a wilting potplant on the windowsill, and blue ring binders in a stack beside an assortment of psychology handbooks.

It’s only a ten minute check up appointment. She almost trusts him to go for drinks with friends, again. Just not at Brick-a-Brack. When he’s got his breathing under control he fills out the questionnaire – _on a scale from 0, not at all, to 3, all the time, how often have you felt…?_ – in a little under thirty seconds.

“I know it might not feel like much, but you’re responding well, Grantaire.”

She’s got that tone of voice that makes him think of soap opera moms that are good at encouraging their kids. He tries for a smile.

On the way out, the receptionist tells him she’ll call to make their next appointment. He nods, glad he doesn’t have to remember, and goes to step outside.

“Oh, it’s crazy busy out there,” she adds. “You can go out the side door, if you like?”

“Sure,” says Grantaire, shrugging.

He pivots on his heel.

“Not sure why,” the receptionist babbles

She’s shuffling through her papers and glancing outside.

“Some kind of student group protest, I heard.” Grantaire freezes, hand halfway toward the door handle. “I thought I heard something about the alphabet before, actually,” she adds, grinning.

Grantaire steps back towards the main entryway.

“I – just – ” he stutters, and doesn’t bother with the rest of an excuse.

She shrugs and waves him off. Grantaire shoves the door open and steps out into the crowd.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, sorry for the massively delayed update! I have a life and it’s ~insane
> 
> Secondly, this turned out a bit more Dramatic as a fic than I ever intended so like…oops? This chapter is another instance of that. Anyway, hope y’all enjoyed it; there should just be one more chapter left!
> 
> Feedback/comments/kudos all appreciated, as usual :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you suggest, then?” Enjolras grits out. “Nothing we can do but stick to our guns, now.”
> 
> “Poor word choice,” says Combeferre, barely moving his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I thought this would be done by June? Ha ha ha. August it is. Enjoy the final chapter!
> 
> Warnings for police violence (most implied but some on-screen), panic, and crying, but also general good feelings in between.

Grantaire barrels through the doorway and out onto the boulevard that cuts college campus in half like a knife. Most of the crowd seems to be here because there’s a bottleneck of students building up between Biggs and one of the science blocks. As he gets closer, though, Grantaire can see that many of them are holding or waving signs in bright red and white, or red scarves, or hats. The signs are mostly hand-done scrawls, but he has to blink as he gets close enough to read them.

_The ABC stands with ALL students_

He still can’t see anyone he actually recognizes, so he shuffles through the crowd as best as he can, feeling claustrophobic, until he spots Marius standing with Cosette and Feuilly. He calls out and they turn and grin as he draws level with them.

“R, hey, glad you could make it!” Marius says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Wasn’t exactly my plan, but here we are,” Grantaire says, avoiding his eyes.

Cosette looks like she’s about to say something but stays silent. Grantaire wonders what on earth he’s meant to say. Behind Feuilly he can see what looks like Joly seated up on the edge of a low wall that runs around the garden plot beside the sidewalk. He’s handing out flyers to passers-by and chatting animatedly with any who’ll stop. Bahorel, who is definitely meant to be working, is holding up a large sign with the same ABC slogan, expression somewhat grim. Courfeyrac is holding a similar sign and calling out to anyone who’ll listen: _we’re the ABC and we stand with ALL students_.

“We’d better get back to it, ‘sette,” says Marius suddenly, grabbing his own sign from where it’s been leaning against another low wall.

“We made a few spares, so you can grab one,” Cosette says, smiling gently. “Joly has them.”

He nods and lets them step past him to start calling out again to the crowd on their side. Feuilly is quiet, but holding his own sign like a shield. He makes eye contact with Grantaire and flashes him a quick smile before resuming a more neutral expression.

“Why so serious?” Grantaire mutters.

“There are already a few policemen around,” says Feuilly in a low voice, shrugging. “I’d rather give them slightly less reason to take me out for being a public nuisance. Bahorel’s being quiet for the same reason.”

Grantaire lets his eyes wonder past to Bahorel again but finds himself quickly distracted as he spots Enjolras. Their unofficial leader is standing with Combeferre. The latter is silent, though holding a sign, but Enjolras is in his element. Grantaire wonders how on earth he hadn’t heard him until now, but his voice is carrying like a bell over the crowd now that he’s closer, and he could be saying anything, but Grantaire has no choice but to listen.

The sunlight hasn’t gotten any brighter, but Enjolras’ hair is gleaming as he gestures with one hand, calling out to everyone walking by.

“ – and it’s honestly an infringement on your own rights to have these kinds of services inaccessible! Your college prides itself on being inclusive and diverse, but how can this be the case when students are extensively inconvenienced, when students cannot access health services or education, when students have no option but to drop out of their studies when faced with a roadblock to their education because of issues like physical and mental health? Why should these so dramatically infringe upon your studies? It’s as if – ”

Grantaire has almost stopped listening to the words, letting the sound wash over him as it mingles with the gathering students. He’s surprised to see that most of them, rather than looking bored or unimpressed, seem to be engaging with Enjolras’ words. He suppresses an almost smile that’s threatening to show. It all looks alright now, but what with Feuilly’s words from before, and what he knows of college protests –

When the first police car pulls up in Grantaire’s peripheral vision he tells himself it's a coincidence. When two more park behind it with five minutes, he pretends he hasn’t seen them. When several policemen and women step out in dark clothing, it’s as if a switch is flipped, and some of the students start to scatter. Grantaire almost accepts that everything will be disbanded then and there, but to his great surprise there are still probably a hundred students holding those red and white signs.

“This is a peaceful protest,” Enjolras calls out to the police.

His voice is steady, but his eyes are flashing and Grantaire can read that he’s far angrier than he’s letting show.

“We’ve been advised that the college considers this a possible breach of campus security,” one of the policewomen calls back.

She actually sounds almost apologetic. Enjolras seems like he’s barely containing his contempt.

“We would be very happy to speak directly with a member of college administration about this, but we haven’t been approached. I don’t mean to be rude,” he adds, sounding anything but apologetic, “but I don’t think we need the police involved here.”

“Enjolras!” Grantaire hears Bahorel hiss. “We can’t afford for them to get involved if we want things to _stay_ peaceful.”

“What do you suggest, then?” Enjolras grits out. “Nothing we can do but stick to our guns, now.”

“Poor word choice,” says Combeferre, barely moving his lips.

Grantaire suppresses a snort of laughter.

“If we could please ask that you clear out of this area,” a policeman calls, stepping out from between two of the cars.

His hand is resting oh-so-casually on the holster at his hip. Grantaire swallows hard. The noise from the crowd of students has dimmed a little, but there’s still a layer of chatter in amongst the much-too-serious verbal sparring that’s already started.

“The most we’re doing is providing a slight detour for the two classes in that science block,” Enjolras gestures haphazardly with one arm, eyes trained on the policeman, “who have to go in via a door twenty yards further down the staircase just there. Anything else we’re doing is perfectly within our right as students of this college asking to be heard.”

“We can hear you just fine,” the policeman snaps back at him. “We’re asking that you stand down.”

For what seems like the first time in his life, Enjolras hesitates. Grantaire can almost hear the cogs in his head turning as he glances at the rest of them, stepping halfway down from the bench he’s been standing on so as to be seen. He’s got some kind of red scarf tied to one hand and and it’s being caught in the light breeze that’s picking up.

“I’m not planning on standing down any time soon,” Enjolras says coldly. “If anyone else with me wants to, I won’t hold it against them.”

Grantaire feels himself freeze on the spot. Enjolras, still looking between them all as if asking them, makes eye contact and almost imperceptibly raises an eyebrow. Grantaire breathes in, out, in, and shakes his head ever so slightly before looking away. As Enjolras steps back up onto the bench he looks like he’s grimacing. Grantaire wonders why on earth Enjolras would ask if he was going to be so offended when he refused an offer like that. He wonders if Enjolras thinks it's a matter of pride.

“We’re not standing down. That’s our final answer,” Enjolras says. “The ABC stands with _all_ students.”

It’s as if his words were some kind of signal, because the knot of students beside Courfeyrac and Bahorel take up the slogan almost immediately. The little rally planned during all of those strange nights at the Musain turns quickly from a peaceful group of friends with passers-by to a veritable wave of students flooding the whole boulevard. It’s also the point at which the police stop talking and start acting.

“They’re putting on fucking masks,” Bahorel yells over the melee. “Enjolras, we need to get out, stat.”

“We can’t stand down, but we need to draw back,” Enjolras calls back.

At his side, Combeferre is trying to redirect swarms of students now piling out of Biggs to walk the long way around.

“There are police already here,” he tells them harshly. “Don’t get involved!”

Grantaire, much shorter than most of the others, has ended up crowded right up against Cosette, who’s gripping Joly’s wrist firmly and almost holding him up.

“Shit, you alright, Joly?”

“Fine, fine,” Joly says, eyes very bright. “This needs to settle down, though. Enjolras isn’t thinking straight, and too many of us aren’t white. This can’t end up like another fucked up version of Ferguson.”

Grantaire feels his stomach go very cold, and whirls around, looking to see if he can find Enjolras, who seems to have vanished. The noise of the crowd seems to dull into static as he looks left and right, but he can’t see him. The knot of students up ahead is loosening, but around where the ABC have been is still packed tightly. Grantaire can’t tell if the banging noises are protestors or police, until he glimpses one of the policewomen in a full mask and grasps the full connotation of Bahorel’s words from before. She tosses something into the air and Grantaire feels his ears recoil as it _pop_ s midair and sprays something grey and cloudy and –

He ducks his head into the collar of his sweater, only letting his eyes peer out over the hem. Enjolras is somewhere over to his right, now, he’s sure, because he keeps catching glimpses of that goddam gold hair. He pushes through the crowd in time to see Enjolras raise his red-clad hand in some kind of angry gesture, Combeferre at his side. Both of them are fuming, but Combeferre has a hand clamped firmly on Enjolras’ shoulder, and it looks like it’s an effort to hold his friend back at all.

“ – if they’d spoken to us first there wouldn’t be a problem!” Enjolras is spitting.

“You need to step aside and stand down,” another policeman is telling them. He’s much taller than either of them, and leering oddly at them both. “Quite happy to take you in for resisting if you don’t, you know.”

He makes a swipe at Combeferre as if to grab him, but Enjolras moves more quickly, grabbing Combeferre by both shoulders and shoving him back into the crowd.

“Racial profiling, I swear to god,” Enjolras snarls, as Combeferre staggers back and is caught by Feuilly before being dragged away between milling students who are mostly panicking.

The officer grins and Grantaire feels sick.

“No interest in arresting me?” asks Enjolras.

He spreads his arms wide, mocking. The policeman narrows his eyes. Grantaire can’t help but notice that this one also has a hand resting on the holsters at his hip.

“Don’t bait him, for fuck’s sake!” someone calls, and it takes Grantaire a second to realize it’s his own voice.

Enjolras doesn’t seem to have heard. Grantaire shoves a group of students aside just as another tear grenade pops overhead, raining down on them.

“Put something over your eyes and nose!” he barks at them, then elbows past without a backward glance.

He’s nearly at Enjolras now, with just a few people between them, but the officer has gone milk-white with rage and is still far taller, and Grantaire is starting to wonder if the police team aren’t about to start on something worse.

“Tell _them_ to stand down,” Enjolras is saying, voice icy.

“I’m not in charge, you know,” the policeman growls back. “And if I was I wouldn’t be taking orders from a snot-nosed – ”

“Oh, but you’ll happily threaten to arrest my friends because they aren’t white? I’m not straight, you know. Does that mean I make a better target? Is that how you decide who to threaten? Who’s the most marginalized? I’m sure that’s a highly-approved method – ”

But Grantaire isn’t listening now, but the argument seems to have caught the attention of someone else in the police force. The milk-faced officer turns his head as someone else in dark blue calls out something and, wide-eyed, he pulls the mask hanging from his neck up over his face. Grantaire doesn’t have time to think. As he squeezes past the last few people he sees the burst of tear gas erupt almost in slow motion, the officer stepping right back, and he barrels across in time to grab the back of Enjolras’ sweater and shove him out of the line of fire.

 

<> 

 

Grantaire falls to his knees almost instantly as the tear gas clouds his vision. The skin on his palms rips as he reaches out to stop his fall. There’s screaming behind him, so he can’t have been the only one, but they’re the least of his problem. He squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as they’ll go but they’re stinging so much and he can’t _breathe_ , and –

Someone grabs his elbow and he lashes out, coughing hard and trying to dislodge the smoky feeling from his lungs.

“ – aire, Grantaire, I swear to god,” says Enjolras’ voice in his ear.

“Fuck,” Grantaire manages to say, before being dragged upright.

Enjolras has got an arm linked through his elbow and is tugging him through the crowd none too gently. Grantaire can feel his eyes watering, somehow, and the stinging feeling is only getting worse. He coughs again, desperately trying to breathe, as the feeling of bodies pressed up against him, Enjolras’ voice still in his ear, becomes overwhelming. He can’t see a thing.

“Clear out,” Enjolras calls, and Feuilly’s voice says something back. “I said, we’ve got to clear out!”

He’s still propelling Grantaire through the crowd, voices clamouring, and it’s another minute before it seems like they aren’t surrounded by students anymore.

“Sit down,” Enjolras says shortly. “No, sorry, to your right – here – ”

He pulls him onto what must be a bench, and Grantaire feels fingertips brush through his hair, tugging it out of his face, but he barely registers it at all. Feeling like he’s going to vomit, he hunches over, one hand gripping his t-shirt collar like it’ll make a shred of different.

“Count to five,” says Enjolras’ voice after a moment, sounding strained.

It takes Grantaire three tries to make any sound to reply.

“What?”

“In for five, out for five.”

“I – fucking – easier said – ”

“Easier said that done, I know, but Ferre’s going to swing by in a second and hopefully he’ll have something to rinse your eyes, but I can’t do a thing for you when you’re still halfway into a panic attack.”

“Harsh,” Grantaire manages, and coughs again.

It’s another few moments before Enjolras speaks again, before Grantaire mostly has his breathing under control.

“Sorry,” says Enjolras.

If he wasn’t already fucking blinded Grantaire would roll his eyes.

“I’m only accepting that apology if it’s for baiting the police guy,” he says.

Enjolras doesn’t reply. They sit in silence, Grantaire tamping down the urge to claw at his eyes, until a car engine rumbles to a halt in front of them.

“We couldn’t get milk, sorry,” says Courfeyrac’s voice, followed by the sound of a car door slamming.

“R, do you think you can open them at all?”

It’s Combeferre’s voice. Grantaire shrugs, letting out something between a laugh and a sob and thoroughly embarrassed by the whole thing. His eyes feel like they’ve been doused in an acid bath.

“They aren’t too swollen from the outside, that’s good,” Combeferre says. “I’m just going to try open them, okay?”

He starts to press cold fingers against the skin right above Grantaire’s eyes, but Grantaire feels himself flinch away.

“Fuck,” he says, with feeling.

“Sorry,” Combeferre tells him firmly, sounding less apologetic than he should, thank you very much. “Courf, come here, would you?”

Grantaire gets about half a second’s warning before Combeferre prods at his eyes again, taut skin tugging at his eyelids, and there’s water being splashed over most of his face.

“Fucking – cold,” he splutters, trying to bat them away.

Attempting to blink the water out of his eyes just makes them sting more, so he forces them shut again.

“Fuck,” he says again.

“Have to rinse them out, sorry,” says Courfeyrac, and is probably responsible for the second lot of water splashed all over Grantaire’s face.

“You alright?” asks Combeferre quietly.

Grantaire is halfway towards asking _what the fuck does it look like_ before registering that Enjolras hasn’t said anything for a while.

“Last lot,” says Courfeyrac, almost cheerfully.

Grantaire tries and fails to blink again as the last of the water drips down his face and onto his shirt. Beside him, Enjolras mutters something so quiet that he doesn’t catch it.

“I’ll drive you back, then?” Combeferre asks.

“Yeah,” says Enjolras, sounding shaky. “My aunt is home, anyway.”

“The cool one?” Courfeyrac asks

He’s helping Grantaire into the back seat of the car. Enjolras takes a little too long to reply.

“Yeah,” he says again. “She’s here for a few days this week. Wanted a break.”

He huffs out something that sounds like a laugh, but not quite right. Grantaire, still blind, pulls a face and hopes he can’t be seen.

“The stinging should settle down soon. I don’t think you got too much of it in the end, R.”

Combeferre’s talking in his medical professional voice as the car lurches slightly, presumably pulling away from the sidewalk and into the middle lane. The radio plays tinny pop music that’s a few years old. No one else says a word. Grantaire spends the car trip to who-knows-where experimenting with letting his eyelids crack open and scrunching them shut again when he can only make out blurs and the stinging only gets worse. There are stray droplets of water making his shirt stick to his shoulders.

The car comes to a halt just as Enjolras speaks again.

“I should have told the others they could drop by.”

“One step ahead of you,” says Courfeyrac. “Need a hand, R?”

Grantaire pulls a face and lets Courfeyrac get out of the car first and tug him from his seat. If he opens his eyes for half a second at a time he can make out shapes now, and he’s pretty sure they’re at Enjolras’ place.

“Christ,” says Enjolras, a bit loudly.

“Hm?”

“Keys,” Enjolras mutters.

Combeferre lets out a laugh, short and sharp.

“Louise’ll let you in, I’m sure.”

When they get to the door, Enjolras’ aunt is already there, because she ushers them all in with a _welcome_ and a _are you all alright?_ and a _Jesus, come right through, all of you_ without asking for an explanation.

“Hey, Aunt Louise,” Enjolras murmurs.

“That can wait,” she says sharply. “Are you alright?”

In another ten minutes they’ve been ushered into what Grantaire thinks is the same room they had their Christmas sweater swap and he’s progressed from blinking to squinting around the room. Joly and Marius are there too.

“Hey,” Marius says, somewhat breathless. “Are you two alright? We couldn’t really see from where we were.”

“How’s your vision?” Joly asks, biting his lip. “I still think Ferre should have taken you straight to – ”

Grantaire tries to shrug. Enjolras has vanished into the kitchen and Grantaire can hear he and his aunt’s voices, but they’re too low to make out any words.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Combeferre says after a few moments.

He leaves just as Enjolras comes back, leaning against the doorframe.

“Bahorel’s picked up Ep and the others will be here soon, too. Cosette and Feuilly just got back.”

Joly darts out of the room, followed more slowly by Marius, as Enjolras crosses the room and slumps into the couch cushions opposite Grantaire.

As his vision adjusts, Grantaire looks at Enjolras properly for the first time and feels his eyes protest as they widen.

“Shit, I thought I got you out of the way,” he says, and immediately clamps his mouth shut.

Enjolras’ eyes are red and puffy. Bright against the rest of his face, they seem to have drained any other color from his cheeks. Enjolras swipes a hand across his eyes, shaking his head.

“You were a fucking idiot,” he says eventually, “but aside from being pushed into a garden bed, I’m fine.”

His voice sounds dull, sounds wrong. Grantaire feels the gears in his brain starting to click into place.

“Did something happen?” he asks, frowning slightly.

Enjolras stares at him. Grantaire stares back for half a second, then looks away, sighing.

“I’m not always very clever, you know. Sorry, but I might need some more info.”

Enjolras presses the heels of his hands against this eye sockets and breathes in and out. Grantaire would swear on his art project that he’s counting to five. Enjolras looks up.

“I was really worried about – ”

He breaks off, looking away. Grantaire barrels right past how he would be feeling if that sentence had ended with _you_ and forces half a smile.

“Assuming that others got back, too, everyone’s fine. Hell, if nothing else, it’ll probably make a newspaper or two. Maybe you’ll get an answer after that.”

Enjolras freezes halfway towards wiping his eyes and Grantaire is horrified to see that he’s crying properly now.

“Not the ABC, you idiot,” he says thickly.

He sounds so incredulous that Grantaire is torn equally between wanting to give him a hug and laughing at the ineffectual insult.

“No one got hurt, did they?” says Grantaire, shrugging instead.

His eyes are almost working properly now, and besides, he doesn’t count. The doorbell rings.

Eponine strides in from the kitchen just as Enjolras goes to speak again.

“Holy shit,” she says, then, “am I interrupting?”

Grantaire looks between Enjolras and her and shakes his head slowly, half shrugging.

 _One second_ , she mouths at Grantaire, and turns to Enjolras.

“Everyone’s alright, you know,” she says, very quietly.

Enjolras nods, not looking at either of them and wiping his eyes. Grantaire wonders where a box of tissues would live in this goddam perfect house.

 

<> 

 

Afterwards, they’re all crammed into the sitting room.

“I’ve got to apologize, and please don’t tell me it’s unnecessary,” Enjolras is saying.

He’s stopped crying, but his eyes are still slightly red. Grantaire’s not sure if his eyes are itching in sympathy or from the aftereffects of earlier.

“Forgiven,” says Courfeyrac firmly. “No one’s blaming you for how things went pear-shaped.”

“I was less than clear-headed,” Enjolras murmurs. “But thank you.”

It’s late now, with the last of the sunset having faded half an hour ago. Aunt Louise sticks her head around the doorway and her nephew twists in his chair to look at her.

“Enj, did you ask if anyone wants dinner?”

Enjolras grimaces and turns back to the group.

“Dinner?”

“Only if you let some of us help,” says Jehan amidst laughter. “Twelve is a lot of extra mouths.”

“Eleven,” says Eponine, apologetic. “I’d better go home and check Gav hasn’t burnt down the flat.”

“Give him a high five from me if he has,” says Bahorel.

He grins, Eponine rolls her eyes and leaves, and several of the others get to their feet, too. Grantaire watches for a while then lets his eyes droop closed for a few seconds, relieving the last of the stinging.

He opens his eyes a little later to Enjolras looking down at him, frowning.

“Dinner will be a while still, and you look exhausted.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says dryly.

Enjolras sighs. It occurs to Grantaire that he’s also weary.

“I was just going to ask if you wanted to nap or something. I’m sure there’s a spare bed still made somewhere.”

Grantaire takes half a second to relish in the fact that almost nothing will surprise him anymore, and another half to take stock of exactly how tired he’s feeling.

“I – somewhere quiet to lie down would be great,” he replies.

Enjolras nods absently and offers a hand. Grantaire blinks. Enjolras half shrugs, but doesn’t withdraw.

“I’m not waiting around all day,” Enjolras tells him.

Grantaire feels a smile creeping onto his face and, concentrating on ignoring the funny leaping feeling in his stomach, accepts the hand that pulls him to his feet.

“Ep slept here last time, didn’t she?” Grantaire yawns.

Enjolras has led him down the hall to a guest room with twin beds.

“I honestly don’t remember who was where, except – ”

Enjolras breaks off, shrugs again, and strides across the room to draw the curtains. They’ve got teddy bears all over them. Grantaire can’t decide if it’s endearing or horrifying.

“Thanks,” he says, slumping onto the bed furthest from the windows.

He forces himself not to slump right over, face-first into the pillows.

“Will your aunt care about the duvet getting grubby?”

Enjolras sits down at the foot of the other bed and rubs one eye, squinting at him.

“Probably not. I’ll put them through the wash if it bothers her all that much.”

Grantaire nods hazily. He lets himself curl into the pillow, right cheek mashed slightly uncomfortably against a corner seam, and tucks his legs up towards his chest. Enjolras stands in his peripheral vision as Grantaire’s eyes start to drift closed.

“I’ll knock when dinner’s ready,” Enjolras says.

He sounds weary.

“Maybe you should take a nap, too,” Grantaire mumbles, eyes closed, and then he’s out like a light.

Soon enough he’s back at the rally for what is probably only a moment but feels like hours. Enjolras is yelling at the policeman again but his voice sounds like it’s underwater. Grantaire’s looking around, but his eyes are stinging, and he can’t hear, can’t breathe, can’t see –

“Grantaire, _Grantaire_ ,” and it’s Enjolras shaking him out of the dream, frowning.

Grantaire pulls away and sits up, Enjolras’ hand clamped like a vice on his shoulder. If he stops thinking about it, it will just go away. If he stops thinking about it, it will, it will, if he just stops –

“R,” says Enjolras.

His voice is clear. Grantaire realizes rather belatedly that he’s crying. He scrubs at his eyes and swears under his breath when the residual sting beneath his eyelids returns in full force. His fingers are shaking.

“’m fine,” he gets out.

He thinks about breathing. Five. It takes far too long to remember, but Enjolras is blessedly quiet. The chatter from the kitchen down the hall isn’t loud, but Grantaire’s got a headache just from thinking about it.

“I need a drink,” he mutters eventually.

Enjolras' hand grips his shoulder more tightly.

“Not right now,” he says. “Hungry?”

Grantaire swallows a hiccough and glances up. Enjolras doesn't move, his hand like a claw digging into Grantaire’s collarbone.

“Not really.”

He’s torn between waves of embarrassment and the fact that Enjolras’ hand is warm. He glances up at him.

“You look worse than I feel.”

Enjolras shrugs.

“It’s alright.”

He chews on the corner of his lip for a moment, then speaks again.

“This feels like it might be a long conversation,” he starts to say, then breaks off.

Grantaire isn’t hungry at all.

“Dinner might be good,” he says instead.

He wipes at his eyes, the tear tracks sticky on his face. Enjolras asks him if he wants noodles or curry.

“I’m not actually hungry,” he mutters.

“Bad luck, they cooked both. Besides, have you eaten recently?”

“No, but – ”

“Which one will you eat more of, then?”

Enjolras is unmoving. Grantaire feels one corner of his mouth twitch in spite of himself, but sighs.

“I’m – not really feeling a big group of people right now,” he admits.

Enjolras lets out a snort of laughter that startles them both. Grantaire grins, helpless. He can’t decide if _this conversation_ is going to be the best or worst thing that’s ever happened.

“Can’t imagine why,” Enjolras manages, deadpan for a half a second before breaking into half a smile. “They’re mostly done eating already. Louise was going to wake you earlier but I t – you needed the sleep.”

Grantaire nods. They shuffle out into the hall and towards the kitchen just as Musichetta and her boyfriends step out back towards the front door.

“We’re all heading off pretty much now,” says Feuilly, apologetic, making eye contact from across the kitchen as they come inside.

“Feeling better?” Enjolras’ aunt asks.

Grantaire takes in her frankly-alarming bright clothes and steely gaze and suppresses a laugh.

“Thank you, yes,” he says.

He files away her asymmetrical blouse and trousers in his mind for next time he feels like sketching.

“Ready to go?” Jehan asks, sidling up to lean against Grantaire’s shoulder.

“I – yeah?”

Grantaire glances at Enjolras, but he’s turned to the food spread across the kitchen table and doesn’t see.

“Thanks for having us, Louise, Enjolras,” says Cosette.

Grantaire finds himself outside, sandwiched between Jehan and Feuilly on their way to the car, before he realizes he never found out what Enjolras wanted to say.

“Enjolras sort of explained, but are you really alright?” Jehan asks.

The engine clutters to life and Feuilly swings the car into the street.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Finished dance for the semester, lost my bag in the crowd, and went temporarily blind. All in a day’s work.”

“Jesus,” says Feuilly.

They speed past a gas station and, in the distance, Musain. When they get home, Grantaire pours himself an inch of whiskey and downs it.

“This time I don’t think anyone can call me out,” he says, when Jehan opens his mouth to protest.

“Actually I was going to ask if you could do the same for me?”

Jehan bats his eyelids, Feuilly tells him he looks ridiculous, and Grantaire forgets about Enjolras for an entire hour.

 

<> 

 

He’s woken up and downed half a cup of coffee before remembering the text he sent Enjolras last night.

**sent / 10.39pm**

_hope you’re okay - get some sleep_

He lets his forehead drop onto the kitchen bench with a _thunk_. Jehan pokes his head out from the desk alcove.

“You alright?”

“’m fucked,” Grantaire mumbles.

His lips feel funny, smushed into the fake marble.

When he drags himself to college he swings via the student center with a beanie pulled as far down over his hair as he can. He peers over the top of his sunglasses and comes face to face with Eponine.

“Did you abandon your Musain colleagues for _college_?” Grantaire asks, mock-offended.

Eponine rolls her eyes.

“Cash money make it rain,” she deadpans, then, “how can I help?”

“Just wondering if my dance stuff has been dropped in to lost property, actually.”

“Where did you last see it?” Eponine asks, shit-eating grin in place.

“Boulevard,” he throws back.

Grimacing, she pushes herself to her feet.

“I’ll check the crate from yesterday, but no promises.”

Grantaire spends the following two minutes forcing himself not to check his phone, which he’s put on silent and crammed into his jeans pocket.

“Nope,” Eponine says, returning to the front desk and slumping into her chair. “Sorry.”

Grantaire shrugs. The phone on her left starts ringing.

“Coffee later?”

She nods, half-waves, and yanks the phone out of its receiver.

“ – college, how can I help?” he catches as he makes his way out.

He swings past Mabeuf’s office on his way to the studio only to find he isn’t there. Scowling, he heads to the studio and pulls out his phone to send the professor an email instead.

**Apollo / 8.40am**

_So well I didn’t even see this til this morning. Hope you got some rest_

**Apollo / 9.55am**

_I know the ABC’s cause isn’t exactly your thing_

 

**Apollo / 9.56am**

_but how do you feel about taking racial discrimination to local court this Friday_

 

Grantaire snorts, heart clenching, and tosses his phone onto the studio floor before he does something stupid like reply. His efforts are in vain. Just before eleven someone knocks at the studio door. He’s halfway through adding white paint to the edge of Combeferre’s glasses when Enjolras steps inside.

“Jesus,” Grantaire says, spotting him in the mirrored panel of himself and nearly dropping his paintbrush.

“Enjolras,” says Enjolras, then barrels right on without so much of a hello. “I sent you a text, but – ”

Grantaire hates to cut him off.

“Wait. How the fuck did you know I was here?”

“Asked Feuilly.”

Grantaire sighs.

“Why me, of all people? All I’ve done for the ABC is make a logo.”

There’s the tiniest twist of Enjolras’ mouth, just the corner of his lips. It’s very distracting.

“You were also directly affected yesterday,” Enjolras tells him, unperturbed. “It would help the case.”

“I don’t understand how this is an actual case,” Grantaire says slowly.

He turns to face Enjolras properly and leans against a sliver of wall between two canvas panels. Enjolras is watching him, the curve at the corner of his mouth more pronounced. Grantaire looks away.

“It’s not exactly a case,” Enjolras amends.

Grantaire gathers the paintbrushes that still need to be rinsed and crams them into an old jar.

“Work said they’ll hear the students’ perspective for free, though,” he adds.

Grantaire blinks.

“Seriously?”

“I spent the last six months reading over racial profiling and police brutality in local crime,” Enjolras says. “My boss said that maybe we could put it to use.”

He’s almost ethereal, standing in the doorway with only a shred of unnatural fluorescent light from the corridor. Grantaire sighs again.

“College says they’ll send some representatives to hear the whole thing out,” Enjolras adds.

“I know, tear gas and all, but don’t you want someone, you know, who’s more a part of the ABC?”

Enjolras grimaces.

“Ferre said you’d say that.”

“But?”

“They want three representatives from the ABC to be there, so it’s not just me,” Enjolras explains. “I thought you might want to – ”

He breaks off, frowning slightly. Grantaire wants the smile to come back.

“I mean, I’m not busy on Friday,” he says. “This is due on Wednesday.”

He gestures haphazardly around the room. Enjolras looks around, too, as if for the first time.

“Right, well – wait,” he freezes, staring at the panel beside the radio.

Grantaire raises his hands as if in surrender.

“Don’t hate me, I needed some subject matter.”

Enjolras looks away from the painting of himself, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre, and laughs.

“Not enough of the ABC,” he says back at Grantaire, raising an eyebrow.

“I just watch,” Grantaire grumbles. “Watch and argue.”

“Most of the others are busy. I thought it might be something you’d be happy to do,” Enjolras gets out, all in one breath.

“Fine,” Grantaire mumbles.

Enjolras grins, shark-like.

 

<> 

 

“It turns out this was a good idea, then,” Grantaire says. “He alright?”

They’re leaning against the wall in the corridor outside the little town hall. Enjolras sighs, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Called in to replace a shift,” he says.

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose for a few seconds before letting his hands drop back to his sides.

“Courf at rehearsal,” he says, holding up a finger then adding three more. “Chetta and co away for the weekend.”

“Courf is probably always meant to be at a rehearsal,” Grantaire tells him. The others are mostly busy, too. Grantaire isn’t sure if he’s pleased or horrified that it’s ended up just being the two of them. “Cosette will drop by if her lecture finishes early, too, remember?”

Enjolras nods then winces. Grantaire would bet his final marks from Le Gros that he’s definitely got a migraine.

A woman in a suit pokes her head around the doorway from inside the hall.

“You two ready to go?”

Enjolras flashes her a brief smile, and she returns it.

“It’s been nice to work with you. Go on, then.” She ushers them inside. “Are you both speaking?”

Grantaire shakes his head emphatically. Enjolras has already pulled his notes from his pocket, perusing them, a crease lightly pressed between his eyebrows.

“You can sit just here, then,” the woman tells him.

Grantaire thanks her and slides into the seat as a man, presumably Enjolras’ boss, stands at the front of the room with a handheld microphone.

“I’d like to introduce Enjolras, who’s an intern with Madeleine and Associates, and also a part of the ABC college society.”

The room echoes with scattered applause. Grantaire turns his head, trying to glance from the corner of his eye at the room behind him. He’s been seated in the second row. There are maybe fifty people here, or perhaps a hundred. He turns back to the front as Enjolras begins.

“Grantaire and I are here representing what I believe is the newest Student Voice group on the college campus, the ABC. As you may have heard or seen, we – ”

All Grantaire can hear is  _Grantaire and I, Grantaire and I, Grantaire and I_ like some kind of sick broken record convincing him he has a chance. He drags himself back to the present, where he has apparently missed a joke; their audience bursts into delighted laughter and Enjolras grins briefly down at his notes before looking back up. Laughter gone, his gaze has turned solemn. The hall falls silent as he starts speaking again.

 

<> 

 

When his speech is over he doesn’t sit by Grantaire, and instead slips out the side door as the room breaks out into small talk. They’re meant to reconvene in another ten minutes. After five, when Enjolras hasn’t returned, he retreats into the hallway too. He finds him slumped on a low bench, his page of notes hanging loosely from the fingers of one hand.

“Uh, you alright?” Grantaire asks.

He winces at the volume of his voice.

“Probably a migraine,” Enjolras says.

He looks up from the floor between his feet. His lip is twisting up into a smile. Grantaire suddenly remembers the promise of a conversation.

“Grantaire and I,” he blurts out, and pastes on a mocking grin a second too late. “That didn’t seem necessary, Apollo.”

Enjolras hesitates, then shrugs, like what he’s about to say is the simplest thing in the world.

“Actually, I was kind of hoping – ”

He breaks off. Grantaire feels slightly numb. He sits down beside Enjolras, not looking at him.

“Is this that conversation you wanted to have?”

His heartbeat is very loud in his ears.

“I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t mind,” Enjolras says.

He’s very quiet, almost nervous. Grantaire turns to look at him. His eyes are so goddam blue.

“Why would I mind?”

Enjolras huffs a laugh.

“Are you doing this deliberately?”

Grantaire resists the urge to roll his eyes. Enjolras is very close, pressed to his side on the bench.

“I’m clearly not getting this one, Apollo. Spit it out.”

Enjolras kisses him.

 

<> 

 

“Cheers,” Grantaire says to the room at large.

He’s holding a glass of juice aloft like a chalice. Courfeyrac snorts into his glass of beer.

“Please don’t tip that on me,” says Enjolras.

They’re squashed onto a low couch in what college calls the Exhibition Centre, which is nothing more than a glorified warehouse. Grantaire can see Mabeuf winding his way through the scattered students, taking notes on each artwork.

“Thanks for coming,” Grantaire adds.

He elbows Enjolras lightly in the ribs, and receives the same in return.

“These are _cool_ ,” Courfeyrac gushes.

“You’re only saying that because you think R painted you all handsome,” says Jehan, rolling his eyes.

“You of all people would agree he looks alright anyway, hm?” Grantaire says, eyebrows raised.

Jehan pretends to ignore him and takes Courfeyrac’s hand in his instead.

“You flattered us all a bit, except yourself,” Enjolras murmurs.

Grantaire shifts so he’s facing him and gulps down the last of his juice.

“It was never going to be a self-portrait,” he says, shrugging. “Wouldn't be as good as the real thing anyway.”

He pretends to toss his hair back. Eponine and Marius laugh. Jehan stops ignoring him long enough to join in.

Enjolras is hiding a smile.

“What?” Grantaire asks, prodding him again. “You’re already a looker, I didn’t have to change a thing.”

“I mean to ask,” Cosette says, from Marius’ other side, “how did everything go on Friday?”

“We have to wait for a report back from the chair, or something,” Courfeyrac cuts in.

“We should hear from them within the week,” Enjolras agrees.

He’s still trying, but now failing, to suppress a smile.

“What _is_ it?” Grantaire asks.

“I was just thinking. Friday still went pretty well,” says Enjolras innocently.

Grantaire laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, THANK YOU for sticking with it til the end :)
> 
> This has been a wild ride of nearly a year. Wow. Enjoy!~
> 
> Fun fact: the song that inspired this whole adventure can be found [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wYgiKUwmw04)
> 
> (Comments/kudos/feedback appreciated, as always!)
> 
> Don't forget to [feel free to say hi on tumblr](http://herringbonefic.tumblr.com)


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